Repent At Leisure
by Loafer
Summary: LASSIET. Juliet does something incredibly stupid and turns to Carlton for help, but this task may prove more than he and his heart can handle. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** _psych_'s not mine, don't claim it, blah blah blah.  
**Rating: **T  
**Summary: **Since it will be four and half MONTHS before the S7 premiere, I am going to be forced to write more Lassiets while waiting. Sorry. This idea came from Lawson227, who has been responsible for quite a few of my _psych_-ic wanderings, so once again, blame her. **PLOT**: Juliet does something incredibly stupid and turns to Carlton for help, but this task may prove more than he and his heart can handle.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**CHAPTER ONE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was a pretty place, really, with a pretty view. West of I-5, south of Santa Clarita, surrounded by hills and mountains.

The sun had just set behind the nearest peak, the evening breeze was cool, and there was a faint scent of coconut and chlorine from the pool around the corner of the main building.

Shawn was ecstatic: the room's accommodations included what he considered an excellent cable package, and he was on the phone with Gus comparing notes about which channels had the best retro shows from their childhood.

Juliet turned from the window and looked at him, feeling flat.

"That would be even more awesome if we watched it together, Gus. We'll come down."

She couldn't believe it, but she wasn't surprised, either.

Shawn popped a cheese curl into his mouth, crunching openly as he went on, "Gus, no really, she's great. She's ready to go. She's here now. Jules, say hello to Gus."

He held the phone out, but Juliet only sighed and sank into the stuffed chair close to the window.

"She's saying hello with her eyes. Look, we'll bring what we found in the room fridge and we'll split room service. Does Kelli like nachos? No, the kind with real cheese instead of Cheez Whiz? Because I'm pretty sure this place has real cheese. Gus, don't be a snob. Yes, you know you're being—no, I didn't—Gus, I told you I took good care of the Blueberry!" Shawn fell into a grumpy silence, listening to Gus' end of the conversation. "Fine, I'll wash it when we get back. Twice. Yes. Now can we come down before _Webster_ starts? We can catch the last fifteen minutes of _Charles in Charge_! Yeah, baby!"

He disconnected and scrambled off the bed, looking for his shoes.

Juliet watched him, her head aching. Clearly she had learned nothing from their last weekend getaway, and this one had far higher stakes.

"Jules, can you carry the soda and the—Jules. Come on, honey, we've got a date with Emmanuel Lewis!" He was beaming.

"Not me, Shawn."

"What? No—come on," he wheedled. "This'll be great. Gus says Kelli likes all the eighties stuff too so this'll be the first time we'll both have our best girls with us to really critique the shows!" He looked into the cheese curls bag, crushed the whole thing and poured orange dust directly into his mouth.

_Our best girls._

Gus had been dating Kelli for a couple of months; she worked in the gift shop for the hospital where Henry Spencer had been treated after he was shot. Juliet had met her all of three times before today and she seemed perky, not so smart that Shawn would feel threatened, but smart enough to be a good match for Gus' encyclopedic knowledge of strange information.

Shawn tossed the bag toward the wastebasket—already half-full of candy wrappers and soda cans—and missed, but naturally didn't pick it up. He looked expectantly at Juliet.

She met his gaze, still feeling simply… flat. "No, Shawn. You go on."

He seemed genuinely shocked. "But Jules, you have to come. It's six full hours of the best eighties sitcoms, in HD, limited commercials, and room service! I mean, really! I can't think of a better way for us to start things off. It's the ultimate in couple-y adventurosity."

Juliet stared at him, the anger tickling at her senses now. "Really? The _ultimate_?"

"Yes!" He found one sneaker and put it on, hopping over to the TV to collect the other.

"It's the _best_ way to start things off?" she repeated, hands clenching the arms of the chair just… a… okay, a lot.

"I can't think of anything more perfect." He bounced away to where his jacket lay on the floor by the bathroom. "I just need—"

Juliet couldn't hear him anymore. She stared in his direction, at his backside more specifically, and knew he was talking—babbling, even, in his sitcom-fueled excitement—but she simply couldn't hear him anymore.

All she could hear was her own voice telling her she had made a huge mistake, a big-ass mutant uber-mistake, the fifty-foot-mother of all mistakes.

Shawn straightened up, grinned, patted his butt as if she'd been admiring it rather than being stunned by her own stupidity, and bounced back to her side.

When he bent to kiss her, his cheese-curl breath woke her up, and she jerked back from him before he made contact. She got out of the chair and away from him rapidly.

He stared at her, puzzled. "What is it?"

Juliet found room, between the despair and the anger, to feign calm. "What do you _think_ it is?"

He beamed again. "Too much excitement. That's what my dad used to say about me when I was a kid."

"He said it a month ago too," she snapped.

"Heheh, yeah. But come on! Time's a wastin'." He started for the door, turning back to see if she was following—that in itself a rarity.

She returned to her spot in the chair. "No."

He was at a loss. "Why not?"

"I don't feel like it, Shawn. I've had a long day. Earlier I had a lot of sangria. I had an inadequate dinner, my head is aching, and really, _this_ is not what I expected for the evening."

For a moment he looked puzzled, then grinned. "Life is about going with the flow, honey."

"Well, flow right out of here, then." She doubted he would hear the ice in her tone.

He debated—she could see it in his furrowed brow—and then declared magnanimously, "You rest, Jules, and when you're feeling better, you can come down and join us. Room 1740." He patted his pockets, muttering something she couldn't hear, and finally pulled out a credit card. "I've got this, so we're covered for pizza if room service can't cut it."

"Just a minute!" She got between him and the door in time to pluck the credit card out of his hand. "This," she said with anger and disbelief, "is _my_ credit card. When did you get—oh my God." She stared at him.

"What?"

"Shawn. When did you take this?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I guess I forgot to put it back when we stopped for gas. You know, you went to the restroom, and I had to pay at the pump."

Juliet could not absorb this with the necessary speed. "So you stole it out of my purse?"

"No, Jules, I didn't _steal_ it. It's kind of _ours_ now, isn't it?"

Coldness settled over her. "And of course you charged the room to my card, too, didn't you."

"But Jules…"

"Have you paid for _anything_ today?"

"I bought you that soda in the gas station!"

"Ooh, a dollar and a half. Thanks, big spender. Did you get Gus' permission to use the car?"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't have to get permission. After all these years, you know the Blueberry belongs to both of us."

"Shawn, it's a _company_ car, so it's sure as hell not something _you_ get to share. Did you ask him?" she repeated. "If you could borrow his company car while he was up here with Kelli? Specifically and in so many words?"

Shawn sighed. "You sound like Gus. Or my dad. No, I didn't, but the beauty of my friendship with Gus is that we don't _have_ to ask each other things like that. Just like I knew I didn't have to ask to use the credit card. I knew you'd say yes, and consider it a joint expense."

_Do not kill him._

_DO NOT KILL HIM._

Deeeeeeep breath. "I might have, if you'd asked. That's the thing, though. You never ask."

His hazel eyes were analyzing her, and she knew him well enough to know he was figuring the right approach to take. "Jules, look, it's been a long day. I had an epiphany—which can really take a lot out of a guy—you were drinking, we decided to get married, and now we are, and we're in a strange place but really everything is going to be fine. You just have to relax. Maybe lie down. I'll save you some pizza." He held out his hand for the card.

Juliet did not release it. "Do you have any money at all?"

"No. Well, not much. Okay, none. Well, I might have seven bucks and a couple of coupons from Java Lava."

"Who gave you that money?"

He was irritated. "I do work, you know. Remember my thriving detective agency?"

"Seriously? I was under the impression that eighty percent of your cases are through the SBPD, and more than half of _those_ are cases you barge in on without invitation because you don't have any other work going on."

"You always need me, though."

"Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence in my ability to do my job."

"Well, _Lassie_ needs me."

"No, he does not, and stop being so insulting. The point is, you don't really _do_ much. You mooch off Gus all the time when you're not flat-out stealing from him, and even when you pay for both of us on a date, I can't help but wonder if he's not bankrolling that too. What _do_ you spend your money on? Other than food? Which admittedly would be a huge outlay in your case?"

"Not fair—"

"For that matter, how do you make your rent every month?"

"Psych," he said, irritated again. "Are we really having our first fight about money on the same day we got married?"

"This is neither our first fight about money nor our first fight. I've just never been as angry about money as I am right now."

"Well… well don't be! This is going to be okay," he promised. "You and I will make good on our debts, and everything will be okay."

"_I_ don't have debt, Shawn. I don't _intend_ to have debt."

"I don't have debt either! I'm never late on my rent, I don't even have a credit card—can't trust those things—and I've never—"

Juliet cut him off. "I'm talking about what you owe your _friends_, Shawn. Today you filled up Gus' gas tank and rented this room on _my_ credit card, mooched off me to pay for the marriage license and the snacks at the gas station, and now you expect me to pay for your foodfest down in Gus' room, but you know what? No. You're thirty-six. You need to be able to pay your own way. If you can't afford the things you want, then _you can't have them_. It is _that_ damn simple."

Shawn shook his head—and why did he seem so confused, when he was so very intelligent about so many other things?—and protested, "That's not simple at all. And it's not mooching when people are married!"

_Gaaaaah! Hold it together... hold it together..._

"Okay, then let's talk about the lying!"

"_What_ lying?"

Was he actually horrified? Juliet was agog. "You lied about where we were going. You lied about knowing this was where Gus and Kelli were staying. You stole my credit card and let me think _you_ paid for the gas and the room. You—"

"But it's our room! It's our gas! It's ours, Jules, can't you see that? Married. _Maaaarried_."

_O'Hara, as much as you might enjoy it, you cannot kill him._

(Damn, was that Carlton's voice in her head?)

"Shawn." Deep breath. Another. Another.

Another.

"It's _sharing_," he insisted. "Sharing of resources, and never is that more important than between best friends and married people, which we are."

_Oh, no. _My_ best friend is Carlton. And if I'd remembered that at the station this morning, I wouldn't have been snockered on sangria when you showed up._

"_Your_ best friend is Gus, we've only been married six hours, and furthermore, _you_ don't actually share. Not _your_ resources, anyway. You're perfectly happy to 'share' _other_ people's resources."

"That's simply not true. Last week I loaned Gus a blue shirt he was coveting for his date."

"Way I heard it," she retorted, "it was his shirt to begin with."

"Potayto, potahto." He huffed at her. "I don't get it. When did money become so important to you? I never thought you were so… cheap."

"Cheap? Cheap?" _No screeching. Never screech_. "If by cheap you mean financially responsible and careful with my expenses then yes, I am cheap. I have a budget, I plan ahead, and I look to my future. Call me the cheapest of the cheap. Go ahead."

"No," he said after a moment. "That would be Lassie."

She shot back, "If _Carlton_—because that's his name—is cheap, it's because he's been on his own a long time, and he had to maintain two households while he was separated. Cops don't make a lot of money, you know. We have to be careful with what we get. Ask your dad about that sometime."

"I don't talk to my dad about money." He was dismissive.

"Except when you need some."

"Okay, you know what? That's enough. I get you've had a long day and you're stressed out but this is our wedding night. We're supposed to be happy and relaxed and having fun, and right now that means going to be with our friends down the hall and do fun friends things together because that's what friends do." He glared at her.

She almost said something about how wedding nights usually _excluded_ friends, but then realized _she_ was in no mood for _him_ to be 'in the mood.' "Then go already."

Shawn drew a deep breath. "May I have the credit card, please?"

Juliet studied him. He met her gaze squarely, and she could not read one single thing about him.

"Jules?"

"Are you scared?"

"What?"

"Are you just… scared? Did it hit you that you're married now and your life is never going to be the same? Are you just acting like nothing's changed because _everything's_ changed?"

Because that would help. It would make a little sense. It would make it easier if she knew that deep down he was just scared and there was still a chance he could be the man he'd…

She sighed.

The man he was never going to be.

"Jules," he said patiently. "I'm not scared of anything. Other than the past fifteen minutes, this has been the best day of my life. I got to marry you—the woman I love. I get to look forward to our life together. And if you'd give me the credit card, I could go and start having fun with Gus and Kelli. It would be thrice as nice if you would come too." He smiled benignly and extended his hand.

If she thought it was to take hers instead of the credit card, she might have given in.

But… no. No more.

"I can't." She went back to the window, card safely in her grip—a grip growing more tense every second.

"Is this about Webster?"

"What?"

"You don't like the little guy?"

"What are you talking about?"

"_Webster_! Emmanuel Lewis! Alex Karras! Susan Clark! 1983 to 1987! Come on, Jules, it was a classic among sitcoms!"

"I was six when it went off the air, Shawn. Forgive me for not remembering that much about it."

"But it was in syndication. It was on all the—"

"Then go!" she yelled. "Just go already!" She pointed to the door, and when he stared at her as if she'd lost her mind, she stalked to the door and yanked it open for him.

He left—staring at her the whole time as if truly, he were at a loss to understand her. At the last second, he darted in and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be back in a bit, sweetie. You lie down and rest, okay?"

She wished she could slam the door behind him. Damn hotel doors didn't allow for fits of temper.

_You will not cry yet._

The first thing she did was use her phone to notify the credit card company to cancel the card, because there was no doubt in her mind that Shawn had memorized the number, the expiration date and the CVV code. Second, she called the front desk and advised them not to allow any additional charges to the room because her credit card had been compromised. _Did that include charges made by Mr. Spencer? _Why yes, it did, thank you very much; and she told the clerk to notify her if anyone, including Mr. Spencer, tried to add charges to their room bill. _And by the way I'm a cop, so assume I mean business._

Then she waited.

Thirteen minutes later, the desk clerk called to say Mr. Spencer had asked to charge food service for 1740 to their room and had been declined, and was asking why.

She said, "I can't tell you why without using profanity."

"I see," the clerk said nervously. "I'll just tell him the card's been declined, shall I?"

_Excellent choice._

Then, after another fifteen minutes, sitting frozen in the chair and feeling progressively sicker and sicker, she began to cry.

She was eighty miles from home. She had the clothes she was wearing and her wallet, phone and housekeys. No transportation—certainly no keys to Gus' car.

_I have to get out of here. I'll just rent a car and…_

No. She would _not_ rent a car, because she had brilliantly just cancelled her credit card.

_I'll find a bus, then._

Doubtful, at his hour. Plus, her debit card was at home and she only had about fifteen dollars in cash. The marriage license had cost ninety dollars, money she only had because on her mad rush home after fighting with Carlton, she'd stopped by the bank with the intention of getting cash for retail and bakery therapy (but only got as far as buying the one bottle of sangria to drink herself near-silly with on her sofa).

_It's only one night. Just go to sleep, and in the morning if you have to pitch a fit, pitch a fit to get him to take you home_. _If fit-pitching doesn't work, take Gus' keys and drive home alone_.

But the more she thought about it, the more she looked around the room, the more she grasped that _she had inexplicably married Shawn Spencer today_, the more she understood she could not.

Could _not_.

Could not stay here.

It was ten-fifteen. The screaming would start before midnight.

Huh. That could be a plan. Get carried off to an asylum.

She cried, alone in the room meant for her honeymoon, and there was no place left in her head which wasn't full of regret, panic, fear and pain. And self-mockery, because that little damn voice had been offering a running commentary for hours—ever since Shawn pulled up at the hotel and beamed at her and said _Oh hey I _just_ remembered, this is where Gus and Kelli are staying; isn't that an amazing coincidence?_

_Oh Carlton_, she thought between sobs, _I am so sorry I've been so dumb_.

And in that moment, she knew he was the only one who could help her.

If she could just stop crying long enough to make the call.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Gus tapped on 1703. Not as firmly as he should have, but then he wasn't entirely sure what awaited him inside.

Juliet pulled the door open. She'd been crying—was still crying—and her pretty face was damp and flushed. "If you're looking for money or credit cards, get lost."

"I'm not," he assured her. "I... I thought I should come check on you. Shawn's pretty rattled."

She stood back and let him enter. "You mean hungry?"

He found a place to stand by the TV, not too far from the door if he needed to run. "He's always a little hungry. I think he has a tapeworm."

Juliet blew her nose. She looked exhausted but resolute.

He had to ask. He knew it was true, but it couldn't be true. "Did you... did you _really_ get married today?"

She sank onto the edge of the bed. "So it seems."

He couldn't make sense of it. Putting aside his Goldschlager-induced quickie marriage to Mira years ago, he and Shawn had promised to be each other's best man. And while Shawn was impulsive, he'd barely even begun to entertain thoughts of moving in with Juliet (so far as he admitted to Gus), so what the hell happened to make him want to elope?

Shawn appearing at the same resort he was visiting with Kelli, now, _that_ didn't surprise him at all. It was rude and invasive but it was Shawn. Gus had even warned Kelli ahead of time they might not have the weekend to themselves, but so far she was taking it in stride.

But for Shawn to show up with his new wife—to begin his married life there? _Then_? And then want to come over and watch TV without her on their first night? After an awkward meetup in the resort restaurant where it was obvious Juliet was increasingly unhappy and unsettled?

He would never understand how his near-brilliant friend, his impossibly observant friend, could overlook the feelings of those closest to him. No, not overlook—_not see_ _at all_.

Juliet looked at him, smoothing one tear off her cheek. "I wish you would tell me the secret, Gus."

The secret.

THE secret?

"Uh, what secret?"

"How you put up with him. How, in thirty years, you've put up with the constant... everything. Everything he gets away with."

"He's a good guy, Juliet. You know he is."

"I do," she agreed sadly. "I fell for him because I thought he was a good guy under all that charm and dazzle. But maybe I was wrong."

"You're not wrong." He sat beside her on the bed. "You know he has a good heart and he cares about people. He loves you. He even loves me and his dad. You know it. He's just got some... quirks we've learned to... tolerate."

She stared at him, her big blue eyes laser-beams of disbelief. "Quirks? I don't think so, Gus. A quirk is... preferring to wear mismatched socks. Or only eating yellow foods. You _can_ learn to tolerate _quirks_. But what Shawn does is more like hiding dead fish behind the sofa every few days, or putting red dye in the laundry, or... or racking up debts on someone else's credit card," she added pointedly. "Those aren't quirks. Those are relationship-killers."

Gus knew he couldn't try to defend Shawn here; there were plenty of dead fish incidents in his memory. He was more alarmed by the expression on her face. "Are you saying he's killed your relationship?"

Juliet hesitated. "I'm saying I don't know how it's possible that yours is still alive."

It didn't escape him that she'd avoided answering the direct question.

"Juliet. I've known him thirty years. He's my best friend. There've been a lot of times I wanted to walk away from him, yeah. But he's always been there for me when it counted and that's... that's why I hang in. It's why Henry hangs in too—plus he's his dad and he kind of doesn't have a choice."

She studied her hands, idly turning a tissue over. "Well, _I _have a choice."

_Holy hell_, he thought. _This is way too serious for just _me_ to handle_.

He stood up. "I'm going to get Shawn back down here. You guys need to talk."

To his surprise, she laughed. "What do you think was going on before he went to your room? He won't talk about this, Gus. He either honestly doesn't understand the problem, or he's so determined to pretend there is no problem that he's making the problem worse. And don't tell me you don't know exactly what I'm talking about. For every argument I've had with Shawn, you've had a hundred."

He felt sick. "You still need to talk."

"Not tonight. I understand if you want him out of your room. I'm sorry he brought us here and I hope you know I had nothing to do with it. He lied about where we were going and I believed him. But don't send him down here, because I can't do this anymore tonight. I just can't." She blew her nose and went to the window, her shoulders slumped.

_Damn you, Shawn, for being... you. _

"At least give me another hour or so," she added quietly, not turning around.

"Okay. I'm... I'm sorry, Juliet. This _can_ work out. You have to believe it. He loves you."

"I know." Her voice was still low, and very, very sad.

But it wasn't enough, he knew, as he left the room. And being Shawn was about to cost Shawn dearly.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Trust your gut. _

Her gut was telling her two things. One, she really could not have another conversation with Shawn tonight. Two, _call Carlton_.

She'd been in the process of composing herself to make that call when Gus had knocked, and maybe the delay was helpful. She'd seen the awareness in his dark eyes that this was a wall she couldn't climb over, at least not right now, and he understood it like no one else. It helped solidify her certainty about getting out as fast as she could.

Calling Carlton, who thought she was a self-deluding whackaloon and had essentially told her so this morning, was much less daunting.

She pressed the button. It was ten-thirty, not too late.

When he answered—his usual terse "Lassiter"—she imagined there was an edge to his voice left over from their argument, and it killed her to realize anew how right he'd been.

How... steady he was. How—even in irascibility—Carlton was about _truth_.

And how the hell much she needed that.

In fresh tears again, she half-sobbed his name.

"O'Hara," he said more gently. "I'm sorry about this morning. Look, you know I'm an opinionated jerk, but I had no right to—"

"Stop," she managed. "You were right and I was so damn wrong and please, please, if you could just come get me, I'll tell you all the ways I was wrong."

"Come get you? Where are you?"

"The Clarita Valley Resort."

A pause. "Where the hell's that?"

"It's near Castaic Lake. North of Santa Clarita."

"Santa—O'Hara, that's eighty miles from here. What are you doing in Castaic?" He sounded puzzled and alarmed but she wasn't hearing _I won't come that far_, and that was good.

"I... I need you to come get me. Please. I know it's a long drive, but I can't stay here. I did something incredibly stupid today, and I don't know how I can make it up to you but if you would just come get me, Carlton, I'd be so grateful."

"Of course I'll come," he said gruffly. "I just—"

"Or maybe if you want you could just wire some money here? So I can get a bus? Or, God, I'm such an idiot, I could probably go to the local police and get someone to—"

"O'Hara," he interrupted. "Stop it. I'm on my way. Just tell me what's wrong while I find my keys. Do I need to bring my service weapon? As if I wouldn't anyway?"

_Dear God, he was trying to calm her down. He had no idea what was wrong but he knew enough to try to calm her down so she could focus_.

This made her cry again.

"Juliet," he said softly. "Please."

She drew a shuddering breath. "I married Shawn today, Carlton. I don't even know why anymore."

His silence was stunned; she could sense it.

"Please. Please just come. I'll wait by the fountain out front and if you change your mind and want to wire the money instead, I understand." She blew her nose, but the tears wouldn't stop.

He was grim. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

She knew he was shocked, and probably angry, and by the time he showed up he'd have shut down like Fort Knox, but he wouldn't fail her.

Carlton would never fail her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Gus returned to his room, where Shawn had taken up residence on the bed, eyes glued to the TV while Kelli, starting to show the tell-tale signs of Shawnitis, sat back in one of the chairs. She looked at him with great relief when he came in.

He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

"Shawn. Come out here in the hall a minute."

"Oh! I'll go," Kelli said at once, already getting up.

"That's okay. I'll never get his full attention if he's near a TV. Shawn!"

Shawn reluctantly tore his gaze from the screen. "What? Did you get the credit card?"

"Come out here," he repeated, holding the door open.

With great reluctance, Shawn rolled off the bed and trudged out to the hall. "What, Gus. You know I need pizza by midnight or I go into pepperoni withdrawal."

Gus let the door close behind them first, and they stood in the quiet hall. "Shawn, Juliet is very upset."

"She'll calm down. I don't even really know what she's mad about."

"You're lying and you're bluffing." Gus frowned. "You get it, don't you? You got _married_ today. That's your new _wife_ crying down the hall!"

"She's crying?" He looked startled. "Why is she crying?"

"Maybe because on her wedding night, her new husband would rather be with me and my girlfriend? Or because apparently you lied to her about a bunch of stuff?"

Shawn's gaze was brief, and then wandered to his feet. "She knew I wasn't perfect a long time ago."

"She doesn't expect you to be perfect. She expects you to be honest."

"Well... _you_ expect me to be honest too and we get along fine anyway!"

"Juliet's not like us, Shawn. She's a regular person."

"I'm a regular person! I screw up, I say I'm sorry, you forgive me, Dad forgives me, and I do better."

"You hardly ever do better, and the truth is..." Gus took a breath. "We don't always forgive you. We just... put things aside." He tried to gauge if Shawn got it, and judged he did not. "What you need to remember is that one day, that pile of things we've put aside might just collapse on top of you."

Shawn's gaze returned to his. "Jules loves me."

"Yeah, she loves you. Hell, Shawn, _I_ love you, and you know your Dad does. But he and I, we have a lot more invested in you, over a lot more years."

"She loves me," he insisted, as if that made all the difference in the world.

It should have, too.

"It's not enough. Not for someone like Juliet."

Shawn sighed. "I'll go talk to her."

"Not right now. She asked for a little time." He glanced at his watch. "At midnight, you go back to the room and try this again."

"Midnight. Got it."

"You have to work for this one, Shawn. You understand?"

"Yeah. I understand."

Gus hoped he did. He hoped to God Shawn didn't screw this up, even though he was pretty sure it was already too late.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was restless. She imagined Carlton was speeding to get to her, but it would still take him a while and she was beginning to feel nervous about Shawn returning before Carlton showed up.

_You should talk_, said her rational mind rationally.

_Talking is what got me here. Listening, believing, trusting. _

_You weren't even sober when the talk started_, RatMind insisted.

_That's not exactly a good argument for talking to him now_, _is it? "Oh sorry I was drunk let's pretend it never happened"? And I wasn't that drunk. I was just tipsy and stupid. _

_Semantics_.

She had to get out of there. She grabbed her wallet, keys and phone and looked around the room to see if there was anything she needed—but there was nothing else. She had nothing else when they arrived. He'd promised they were only there for the night and she wouldn't need clothes again until morning, _hubba hubba_, and they didn't have rings because the whole thing had happened so fast. He'd muttered something about his grandmother's ring being back at his dad's house (something _else_ he wouldn't have to pay for), so all there was to take out of the room was already on her person.

Including regrets.

Juliet almost ran down the hall, putting distance between herself and Room 1740, and pulled open a side door which led to the pool.

There were some late night swimmers, partiers, no one who paid any attention to her, and she went out the far gate toward the front of the property, where lay the fountain she'd mentioned to Carlton.

She sat on the edge, right in front, hoping that if Shawn by some chance went to the main entrance and looked out, the fountain itself would conceal her.

Faint spray from the splashing water hit her back and arms but she didn't mind. It was cooling, refreshing, and if she'd thought hotel security would allow it, she'd stand in the fountain to completely wash away the last few hours.

And this morning, too.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"_We should call Psych in on this case." She seldom said Shawn's name anymore, since it tended to set Carlton off faster._

"_We're doing fine. It's called police work."_

"_Police work means using every tool in the box to solve a case, Carlton."_

"_He's a tool all right," he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair._

"_There's no need to say things like that. I'm just trying to help get this case solved."_

"_You're trying to take a shortcut, and that never works with him."_

"_What's wrong with a shortcut, if justice is done? Are you calling me a lazy cop?"_

"_No," Carlton snapped, "I am not calling you a lazy cop. I'm saying that what seems like a shortcut by calling in Spencer and his pet only means that _five or six_ people get accused instead of the _right_ person _once_. I'm saying you and I actually have to work harder after that to build a case which will stand up in court because of his claims to be psychic—you don't see the D.A. putting _him_ on the stand, do you? I'm saying we can solve more cases on our own without his interference, and I can't _believe_ I have to keep defending this position!"_

_Without thinking it through, she retorted, "Maybe it's because you're wrong. Other people like him, you know. Maybe if you tried liking him, you wouldn't have so much animosity toward the process."_

"_The process? The process?" Carlton loomed over her, his eyes a glacial blue. "The process of breaking and entering, tampering with witnesses and evidence, making a public spectacle of himself and incidentally denying any credit to those of us who make him look good by doing all that behind-the-scenes boring stuff like proving the case? _That_ process?"_

_Juliet stood her ground, glowering up at him with as much heat as he was showing her. _

_Carlton huffed and strode away, but she was certainly not done. She ran after him, and caught up when he was even with the conference room door. Grabbing his arm and pulling him in, she glared into his angry face and said, "Listen to me. You have got to—"_

_He cut her off. "O'Hara, let me ask you a question. When did it become necessary to 'like' someone you work with? When did that become a deal breaker? The job is the job. Catching the bad guys is what we do. It's what _I _do, anyway, and I have never once thought it was essential to be nice to your boyfriend so _you_ can feel better about 'the process' of him ass-hatting his way to an arrest we have to bust our butts to make stick."_

_Juliet was stung. "This is not about him being my boyfriend, and you've always had a problem with him."_

"_Yeah, I have," he agreed readily, eyes still blazing. "And what the hell difference does that make?"_

"_It means you have a closed mind where his abilities are concerned!"_

"_Oh, don't you even bring my closed mind into this. I have a problem with Spencer because in the first place, he's a fake and an ass. In the second place, I've had to stand by and watch him nearly decimate our careers—our ability to catch those bad guys I mentioned a minute ago—for the last seven years and I'm more than a little tired of it. I'm also more than a little tired of my partner speed-dialing him every time a case is the least bit challenging."_

"_That sounds like you calling me a lazy cop again," she said icily._

"_No. I'm saying you show favoritism to the consultant you happen to be dating. I'm saying you put us down as a team in favor of him coming in and grandstanding."_

"_Then maybe we're not the team we should be." The instant the words were out, she knew it was a lie and something she should never have said even in jest._

_Carlton's eyes darkened. "Well, it wasn't _me_ who shut _you_ out."_

_The silence was long and cold, and dammit, he was right._

"_We've been through that," she said tightly, "and that's not the point. You should be able to put your differences aside and work with anyone."_

"_I do," he retorted. "Every time he bounces in here and makes eyes at you until you cave in and let him join the case, I work with him. I may not do it willingly, or with grace, but by God I work with him and if you're saying I've ever interfered with a case for reasons other than a genuine certainty he was wrong, let's hear them. Come on, O'Hara. Tell me I've been a bad cop while you've been hopping in and out of the rabbit hole with Mr. Gel-head."_

_A moment of clarity in the anger and hurt and embarrassment told her he thought she was an idiot. Not a lazy cop, not even showing favoritism: just a simple idiot for being involved with Shawn._

_And not that he was entirely wrong, but her mistakes were _her_ business, not his._

"_I don't need your approval on my love life, Carlton."_

_He drew back, startled and annoyed. "What the hell?"_

"_That's what this is really about, isn't it? You thinking you know best about my romantic interests?"_

"_I don't understand thing _one_ about your romantic interests, and they're irrelevant anyway."_

"_Then why does it keep coming up? Your hostility to Shawn every step of the way?"_

"_Because he treats me like crap, O'Hara! You've witnessed it a million times and never once told him to shut it! Of course maybe you _agree_ with him."_

"_I do not!" she nearly shouted. "But you have to get over this, Carlton, this inability to see him as an ally rather than an enemy."_

"_I don't see him as an _enemy_. I see him as someone who gets in the way of doing our jobs. You might too, if you weren't too charmed by his antics to notice."_

_Juliet's mouth hung open._

"_And just so I'm clear," he went on, his tone one of supreme derision. "A minute ago we were arguing about calling him in to help with a case we don't need help on, and now it's about me thinking you could do a whole hell of a lot better than that lying, shallow—"_

_He went silent—except for a hiss of pain—when she slapped him._

_They stared at each other. She was horrified. He was shutting down._

_His eyes a chilly blue, he let out a long breath and said, "You know what? I think maybe it's your _own_ approval you really need." _

_Juliet walked out. _

_No… she ran out. He didn't call after her, and she couldn't blame him._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

If Carlton made good time, he'd be with her not long after midnight.

Two minutes after midnight, her phone rang.

Shawn.

She answered with great reluctance.

"Jules, baby, where are you? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay." She bit back the urge to ask if he was hungry.

"Listen, I'm not mad about you cancelling the credit card, though I must say, we're going to miss out on that sweet breakfast buffet."

Yeah. Because _that_ was important.

"I'm going home, Shawn."

"What? No... what? You can't go home. This is our wedding night."

"This is the night of the day we got married. It doesn't seem much like a wedding night."

"Well, that can't change if you're going home. How are you going home anyway? Did you take Gus' keys—no, I've got them; damn, I was worried for a second."

Stealing someone else's car keys... yes. So nice to be judged by _his_ standards. "I would never have taken them without his _permission_."

"Of course not. Neither would I. Listen—" He stopped at her laughter, presumably not hearing the bitterness in it. "Oh, good, you're feeling better. Look, let's meet up in the coffee shop and talk things out, okay?"

"I can't. I can't try to talk about this anymore. We should have done all this talking before we went into the county clerk's office."

Shawn was silent for a moment. "We have all the time in the world to talk now."

"It won't be tonight. I'll catch up with you in Santa Barbara."

"You'll 'catch up' with me? You make it sound like we're just buddies. We're married, Jules. I'm your husband. We have to talk about what's wrong because that's what married people do."

Communication advice from the Great Prevaricator.

Juliet was so tired. Tired of him, tired of herself, tired of this day. "Not now, Shawn. I just can't do this right now." She disconnected without waiting for a reply, pocketed the phone, and sank back into tears of confusion and pain and stupidity.

She could barely see the Ford Fusion when it stopped in front of her. She could barely make out Carlton's lean dark form as he got out and pulled her to her feet, but she held on to him tight and he let her cry for a few minutes until his dark blue tee was soaked.

He felt so warm and he smelled good and he represented sanity and strength and forthrightness and no one would _ever_ call him perfect but in this moment, at this time, he _was_ perfect.

Carlton's arms were strong around her, but after a while, he murmured her name—_Juliet_—and quietly urged her into the car.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton knew how to compartmentalize. Without the ability to compartmentalize, a cop couldn't make it on the job. You _had_ to be able to put aside the horrors you might see in order to keep your sanity.

By his own cautious analysis, he'd done fairly well compartmentalizing his feelings for Juliet into a box he only took out at night (or when he was weak and no one was looking), keeping them separate from the work day and their partnership.

Mostly.

He had feared she might fall for Spencer's line of crap (although he knew Spencer did actually love her), but he'd also chosen to believe she would eventually come out of her pineapple-scented-coma, because she was _so_ smart, and had plenty of self-esteem, and surely one day, one day, she would _see_.

He even assumed he'd figure out a wedding was in the works by judging her level of happiness (blindness) with Spencer beforehand, and be able to prepare himself for it.

(As if there was a way to prepare for that other than leaving town, which had crossed his mind.)

But he never saw this coming.

He'd thought she was increasingly _unhappy_ with the man of late. Even during their God-awful argument this morning, he had perceived cracks in the armor of her staunch defense of Spencer.

To hear "I got married" and "please come get me" in the same conversation didn't fit any scenario he had ever envisioned.

He glanced at Juliet, slumped against the passenger door, sniffling. She looked exhausted.

Twenty minutes of driving toward Santa Barbara had earned him not one word from her, but in her defense, he hadn't said anything either.

He didn't know what the hell he _should_ say.

_What happened?  
It'll be okay.  
What did he do to make you regret it on the same day you married him?  
Really, it'll be okay.  
Why him?  
It'll be okay... eventually. I promise.  
Why wasn't it me?  
I'll be okay. Eventually. _

_And if it's up to me, you'll be happy no matter who you're with._

"You want coffee?" he asked abruptly. "I passed a McDonald's on the way up and we should hit it soon. Maybe you need some food too."

After a moment, she smiled very faintly. "Coffee. And an apple pie. Yeah." She looked full at him, her eyes huge and troubled. "Thank you so much for coming."

He only nodded.

It was only another few minutes before the golden arches appeared, and Juliet asked uneasily if they could use the drive-thru rather than go inside. There was no chance he'd argue with her request.

He placed their orders—coffee, pie, and a hamburger for her just in case, and one for him too in hopes chewing would keep him from saying stupid-ass things while she was clearly so very upset.

And married.

There was a parking space in the street next to the McDonald's, so he pulled in and parked, windows down to let in the cool night air, and she handed him his coffee before sorting through the bag.

"O'Hara."

She looked up at him, growing still.

"What the _hell_ happened?"

"It's been a really, really long day," she sighed, and held out the wrapped burger.

Carlton took it, spectacularly un-hungry, and kept his gaze on her.

"First, I am so very very sorry for slapping you this morning. I was completely out of line and totally wrongheaded and you can't even imagine how much I regret it."

"I may have had it coming," he suggested, because he probably did, and because her eyes were misty and he didn't want her to cry anymore.

"No, I don't think so. You were telling the truth. You always tell the truth. You're not always gentle about it," she amended, "but you always tell the truth, and nothing you said this morning warranted a slap."

Again, he could only nod. Truthfully, he wasn't sure anything _she_ had said warranted the way he talked to _her_.

Juliet bit into the apple pie and sighed again, this time with contentment more than weariness. "I've been thinking about today a lot in the last few hours and honestly, challenging you about Shawn is where it all went wrong. You let me have it, and rightfully so; and I stupidly ran out and got a bottle of sangria and took it home to wallow."

He couldn't help it. "Girlie drink. Real wallowing requires Scotch."

Juliet smiled, and one tiny weight lifted from his heart. "Regardless. I skipped lunch, so that girlie drink did a number on me pretty fast." She had another bite of pie, and sipped her coffee.

"I thought your brothers taught you to drink."

"Oh, they did. Lesson one, don't drink on an empty stomach. It was my second screwup for the day."

"O'Hara," he warned her. "Just tell the story. Self-recriminations can come later."

She set the pie down and took a deep breath. "Shawn showed up early in the afternoon. He was agitated and asked if I'd come for a drive with him. He said he'd been to see Henry and he wanted to tell me about it but he also wanted to just drive somewhere."

"On his bike?" That would explain her needing a ride. "Or in your car?" Yeah. That'd be more like it for the mooch.

"Better," she said dryly. "_Gus'_ car, which I found out later he didn't have permission to use."

Carlton withheld a "duh."

Juliet glanced at him, and that same faint smile told him she knew what he was thinking.

Benefit of the partnership. Liability when he wanted to be inscrutable.

"Feeling rebellious, I got in the car, and we drove. For while he didn't talk about anything in particular, but when we were nearly to Santa Clarita he got to the point."

It _would_ take that long.

"He and Henry had a long talk. You know how shaken up Shawn was when Henry got shot. Almost losing him was a wake-up call, and he said Henry wanted to push home a few lessons he'd learned while he was recovering. Lessons like: don't waste opportunities." She rested her head against the door, sipping her coffee.

_I shouldn't have wasted mine._

"And the one which really got to him: you might not have as much future as you think you do, so don't put off the important things. 'Someday' might never come."

_Henry was a smart guy... sometimes._

"So Shawn said he was taking that to heart. He said it was time to stop fighting the inevitable—age and responsibility and commitment—and as he parked the stolen car in front of the county clerk's office, he turned to me and asked me to marry him."

Carlton didn't allow himself to think _anything_.

After a moment she looked at him, solemn and tired. "At first I said no, because it was more than a little crazy."

"Good girl," he muttered.

"But he pressed the point. He seemed to know exactly which buttons to push, today of all days. Didn't I ever want to do the unexpected. Didn't I ever want to prove that what was right might not seem logical to anyone else. Didn't I want to show everyone what a good couple we were. Didn't I ever just want to throw a big 'screw you' at people who say 'you can't do that.' Didn't I." She fell silent.

He sipped coffee and eyed his burger. Wanted it even less now.

"He said he loved me and we should take this chance."

When a tear ran down her cheek he took the coffee from her hand and set it in the cupholder, turning her to face him while he brushed the tear away. He didn't know what he was doing but she accepted his touch and the napkin he handed her, blowing her nose and reclaiming the coffee when she was ready.

"I know now that what made me say yes had very little to do with my feelings for him and a lot more to do with wanting to prove _you_ wrong."

Even though he'd half-expected something like that, it was still hard to take it in. He had enough natural guilt about everything without having to add _Great_, I'm_ the reason she married Gel-Head_ to the list.

The napkin was useless when she began to sob again, and Carlton felt equally useless. He got out of the car, crossed to her side, opened the door and pulled her up and against his chest, because he needed to put his arms around her as much as she needed someone's arms, and she probably didn't have _his_ arms in mind but he was the one with her, right?

Juliet sank into his embrace, cheek warm against his heart, and they stood in the street while she cried herself back to order.

Golden arches behind, stars above, traffic passing. He held her, because he loved her, and he would always love her, and after she inevitably reconciled with _her husband_ she would forget this night and that she'd turned to him for comfort.

"Isn't a girl supposed to call her _mother_ crying on her wedding night?" he asked, his lips brushing her soft hair.

Juliet's small laugh was muffled against his re-dampened shirt. "It's the time difference." She lifted her head. "You're the best substitute ever, Carlton. When a girl can't call her mom, her best friend is always next on the list."

He was touched, and couldn't stop from brushing more tears from her warm skin.

"Okay." She breathed deeply, steeling herself. "Let's get back in the car and I'll tell the rest."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She finished off her pie first and started on the burger at Carlton's insistence. The coffee was good and she needed the sustenance, and she needed Carlton, and someday she hoped she could make him understand how much she appreciated him.

After she said yes to Shawn, they went in to get the marriage license. Of course he didn't have the money to pay for it—Carlton rolled his eyes—but she put it down to the impromptu nature of the proposal (even though it niggled at her that Shawn knew exactly how to find the county clerk's office in a city unfamiliar to him).

She'd allowed herself to feel a bit giddy—she was getting married!—but in truth, in God's honest truth, it _had_ been as important to her to prove Carlton wrong as it was to marry the man she thought she loved.

When she said this to Carlton, very quietly, he was silent. His blue gaze—even in the dim light of the car she could see how blue they were—was steady, but it was impossible to read his thoughts.

Not the first time she'd been sorry about that.

Would he think she was nuts, or selfish, if she asked him to hold her again?

It hit her that she'd already been physically closer to Carlton in the past hour than she'd been to Shawn all day. Shawn had kissed her enthusiastically after they were pronounced man and wife by an uninterested judge over at the Santa Clarita courthouse (another place he mysteriously found without a map or asking directions), but then he'd dragged her back to the car and said they had to celebrate.

She resumed her tale there, for she was confident Carlton didn't want to hear about Shawn kissing her.

He drove directly to the resort—as if he'd been there a dozen times before—and as soon as they stopped in front of the grand fountain he said with incredibly authentic surprise that he'd _just_ remembered this was where Gus and Kelli were staying, and wasn't that cool, and Gus would be so thrilled and they could get a room there too and wouldn't it all be so freaking awesome, etc., etc.

It was then, she admitted to Carlton, that she first felt the tickle of real uneasiness about her decision. It was then she began to wonder how much of the day had been spontaneous in the first place. Clearly he'd looked up addresses and directions to all three places before he ever showed up at her apartment, but then why not admit it? Why play like it was all innocent? Did he think she was stupid? Did he think he couldn't just ask her to marry him in a conventional way and take his chances on getting an unrushed reply?

When Shawn went to the desk to get the room, she'd hung back. She'd known there was no way he had the money for the reservation, but it never once occurred to her that he had _her_ credit card, nor that he'd used it at the gas station earlier. She just assumed it was the usual: he'd palmed Gus' credit card, and she'd be the one to pay it back later. (She'd long since realized their weekend getaway months ago had been Gus-funded, not that Shawn had admitted it directly.)

Carlton's reaction to the admission about her credit card gave a definite set to his jaw, and for a moment she worried he might completely make mush out of what was left of his burger. But again, he kept quiet.

Shawn, their room keycard in hand, called Gus immediately. _I have to tell him we got married_, he explained, and she didn't begrudge him that. But when she heard him tell Gus they should have dinner together, more alarm bells went off.

She warned Shawn they shouldn't disrupt Gus and Kelli's weekend. She didn't say the two of _them_ should be alone together, because she shouldn't have _had_ to tell him. It was kind of built in to the whole getting married thing, right?

Next to her, and decidedly baleful, Carlton wrapped up the rest of his sandwich and threw it in the bag.

Shawn overrode her, and by then the sangria was wearing off and reality was kicking in with a size 13 steel-toed boot.

Gus—gaping—and Kelli, confused, met them at the entrance to the restaurant. Gus congratulated them, awkward hugs were exchanged, and the four of them had a strange meal together. Shawn was ebullient, and very enthused about the 'chance' meeting on this fateful day. _We should celebrate_, he said.

Juliet finally found her voice and suggested they go check out their room. Maybe she could calm him down and remember why she'd said yes if they were alone and everything was quiet.

Except Shawn, of course, didn't _do_ quiet. He was restless in the room until he turned on the TV, still proclaiming this the best day ever. She asked if he wanted to call his dad: no. He didn't ask if she wanted to call anyone, and the unfortunate truth was she didn't.

From this point in the story, it was easy to be more detached. She described their argument, but had to add, "It's not really ever an _argument_ with Shawn. He doesn't argue properly."

Carlton frowned. "He and Guster go at it enough."

"Yeah, but it's like he brings a squid to a knife fight. When you and I argue, we stay on topic for the most part and yell until we're done. With Shawn, it's about deflection. He's willing to yell, but never about the actual point of contention."

"Squid to a knife fight," he mused. "I like that."

"Anyway," she said, but had nothing left. "I was stupid, that's all there is to it. Blind and stupid and misguided and—"

"Stop." He rubbed his face, and she could see how tired he was too.

"And now I've got the biggest mess of my life."

Carlton sighed. "Yeah. Unless you work it out with him."

Juliet turned her head to study him. "Work what out?"

He was obviously uncomfortable. "You might work it out. There's something there, right? Or you wouldn't have said yes at all."

She had no idea how to respond. _Carlton_ was telling her it could work out? With _Shawn_?

Finally she said, "You can't work out personality clashes."

At first he was silent.

Then he said slowly, "We did."

Juliet was stunned.

Carlton looked at her evenly. "Who's more different than we are? And we've lasted seven years."

"Carlton," she breathed, "that is not the same thing."

"Isn't it? Who ever thought the nice rookie would last with the bad-tempered son of a bitch head detective?"

"It is not the same thing," she repeated. "You and I are alike in a lot of really important ways, like valuing truth and hard work and trusting each other and knowing how to be… quiet together. Being bad-tempered isn't who you _are_, Carlton. It's only what you show on the outside. I've just stuck around long enough to see the warm gooey inside."

He looked at her sharply. "Don't you ever call me warm and gooey again."

Juliet laughed—for the first time in hours where it wasn't bitter—and saw his reluctant smile. "I won't. I promise. Sort of. But seriously—you know what I mean about Shawn. I'm not going to be able to 'work out' who he is against who I am."

"Juliet." He seemed to be bracing himself. "You had over five years to see what kind of man he was and you began to date him anyway. I'm just saying you shouldn't be so sure you can walk away."

"I had five years of letting him charm me, and a lot of optimism that his heart—the heart he doesn't often show anyone—would make him a good choice. Or at least a temporary one," she admitted.

He looked at her again, this time curiously. "What do you mean?"

She fiddled with her seatbelt. "It means I've had a few late-night conversations with myself wherein I acknowledged that Shawn wasn't likely to become someone I could spend my life with. Not unless a lot of things changed."

"Marriage is a pretty big change," he pointed out reasonably.

"Real marriage is, yes. Not a quickie ceremony in an out-of-town courthouse with a guy who spent the day lying to me and surreptitiously using my credit card."

"That's fair." Another reluctant smile.

Now she was curious. "Why are you encouraging this? You're the last person I'd expect to support my marriage to Shawn. I mean, I know you'd support _me_, but the marriage wouldn't be something you'd like much." Shawn, she realized, would be insufferable about it at the station.

"It's not," he admitted. "But after our fight this morning, I can't afford to give you any reason to think I might try to sabotage your relationship."

Curiosity turned to appallment. "Oh, Carlton, no! I've never thought you were trying to sabotage my relationship. I knew you didn't like it, but I never thought you wanted to wreck it." She was earnest; he must know that.

After a pause he said, "Okay, look, you've had a long day. I think I should take you home so you can rest. You never know what you're going to think about things in the morning."

"I know what I'll think about _you_ in the morning," she said softly.

"I probably don't want to hear it." His tone was dry as he started the engine.

"You might. I'll think you're the best friend I've ever had in my life, and I'll wish I deserved it even a little."

He turned to look at her, startled, and she saw in those vivid blue eyes a flash of emotion.

"O'Hara." He stopped, swallowed, and began again. "O'Hara, you are a stellar person, and if you think having me as a friend is a good thing, then I'm incredibly honored."

Stellar. Not so much _today_, but how sweet of him to say it. She smiled mistily. "It's the best thing."

Carlton let out a sigh, and she suspected he was pleased.

"Let's get you home."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

There were two wooden patio chairs on Juliet's back deck, and she pulled one out into the morning sunshine, a large mug of coffee keeping her company as she sat and soaked up the warmth and hope of a new day.

Carlton had gotten her home around two a.m. He escorted her to the door, let her hug him again and whispered, "It's going to be okay," words she thought must have seemed slightly foreign to him.

Of course everything _would_ be okay, eventually.

And not just because his warm smoky voice promised it. Not just because with his arms around her she felt safer and more hopeful than she'd ever expected.

No, everything would be okay because this was, in fact, a surmountable problem.

She'd been face down on her bed until an hour ago, phone off, eyes shut tight, willing it all to have been a strange bad dream. Now it was just after ten; a scant twelve hours past the breaking point in her relationship with Shawn.

Was it broken beyond repair?

She had to wonder, because Carlton had asked her to wonder, and for Carlton of all people to advise caution before making rash decisions about Shawn meant she should take the advice to heart. Certainly he hadn't been wrong so far.

The answer, however, was unclear. Except for the part where she was married. _Married_.

Her 'husband' was God knew where—no, she knew: he was partaking of the "sweet breakfast buffet," probably at Gus' expense—and she had to have the most difficult conversation with him imaginable. Soon.

_So what are you saying? Exactly?_

_I'm saying that I already know I should not be married to Shawn. Not now anyway. And not like this._

_Well, you cared about him enough to say yes. To stay with him all this time._

_I did. I do. I… do. I _did_. But suddenly it's not the same as it was. As I _thought_ it was. _

_Then what's this about "not now anyway"? You're saying you _could_ be married to him someday?_

Juliet sipped coffee to stall answering herself, and was half-relieved to hear someone knocking on the front door. She went inside and through to the front, where the door was open already—stopped only by the chain.

Shawn was on the other side, exasperated. "Why's the chain on?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" She let him in, noting with dismay that he carried a duffel bag. "What's that?"

"My things. Enough for a few days, anyway, until we decide where we're going to live, though I gotta admit, this place is pretty sweet." He smiled. "Hi, Mrs. Spencer."

"Hi—"

She was stopped by his kiss, a meaningful kiss, a kiss meant to distract her, but she was already so distracted that the kiss was just… annoying.

"Shawn," she said urgently, breaking away. "You can't stay here."

"Why not? The lease isn't so specific as to rule out an additional roommate."

"How in the hell would you know what my lease says?"

"Well," he said patiently, "it's our lease now. I don't think you get this married thing yet, honey." He plopped down on the sofa and put his feet up on her table. "You feel better today? I really missed you last night."

_Wait for it… wait for it… would it be about wanting a fourth for poker, or how her credit card would really have come in handy for the three a.m. snack run, or…_

But he surprised her by appearing genuinely regretful. "I know I messed up our wedding day. I'm sorry."

Juliet sat at the other end of the sofa, still unwilling for him to be close to her, for reasons she could not fully grasp. "It was really weird, Shawn."

"I know." He leaned forward, studying his hands. "I had it all planned but I didn't think you'd go for it if you had time to think it over."

"You thought it would too late for me to think it over if we were already married?"

"Yeah, something like. I really did have that talk with my dad. The epiphany. Only it was Thursday, not Friday morning."

"Shawn," she said slowly, not really believing it, "are you actually being honest with me for a change?"

"Freaky, huh?" He grinned for a moment. "Jules, I'm always as honest as I can be, and one thing I'm totally honest about is that I love you and I want to be with you."

For a moment she saw the hint of truth behind the mask of charm and chicanery—the truth she'd spotted time and again over the years which had kept her from giving up on him.

But she didn't forget the truth she knew about _herself_: a little Shawn went a long way, and she had been unbecomingly relieved that Henry being shot had the side effect of interrupting her now obviously insane machinations toward having Shawn move in with her.

"Jules," he said expectantly.

Oh. She was supposed to say she loved him and wanted to be with him too.

Yeah, well.

"I can't handle this yet, Shawn. You know I care about you. You know it. But everything about yesterday is banging around in my head and heart and I just can't _handle_ this."

The hazel of his eyes grew darker. "What did I do yesterday which was so different from the me you've known all these years?"

_There_ was a question. A damned good one.

"Honestly? I guess… nothing. But on a woman's wedding day, Shawn, what stands out should be the good stuff… not the bad stuff."

He looked down for a few seconds. "I got carried away a little, I guess. But the thing is, we _are_ married now. You're Mrs. Spencer. I'm Mr. O'Hara. We're supposed to be together and work things out and why not now? When's a better time than right now?"

_When I feel sane again._

Shawn pressed on, "We could watch some TV. Go catch an early lunch special at Taco Tomás. We could go to the mall and make fun of the people coming out of the hair salon."

All things he enjoyed with Gus and had never quite figured out weren't _her_ only interests as well, which was entirely separate from the fact that _none_ of those things involved actually talking or working anything out.

"I'm sorry. I don't feel much like eating, I'm really not in the mood for TV, and the mall… I'm not in the mood for that either. I just need some space, Shawn."

"Jules," he said sadly. "This is supposed to be a happy time. I can't believe I've screwed it up that much already."

"It's not all you," she assured him. "Obviously I wasn't really ready for anything about yesterday and I won't even pretend I handled it well."

"I understand." He stood up. "I already know what to do, though." He headed toward the door, and she was beyond thankful to see him pick up his duffel bag along the way.

"What's that?" Because one should never _assume_ with Shawn.

Standing in the open door, smiling as if he had all the answers, he said simply, "I have to win you all over again."

The door closed behind him before she could even formulate the thought "oh, crap."

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Carlton roamed his condo restlessly.

Juliet was married.

Married.

Married to _Spencer_.

And he—Carlton "I Just Don't _Get_ That Asshat" Lassiter—had encouraged her to consider working it out with him.

_Two words for ya, pal: Mo. Ron._

_But all right, Lassiter, big shot head detective, think this through._

Possibility One: she divorced him immediately and life went back to 'normal,' even though there was no such thing as normal and _he'd_ still only be her partner and friend.

Possibility Two: she would agonize for weeks or months—with Spencer jumping around trying to get her back—and she'd be miserable, and Carlton would be in the suck-ass position of trying to be supportive of the woman he loved being miserable over another guy. Who was, say it with me now, _her husband_.

Possibility Three: Spencer was over there right now doing her, and Juliet would appear all starry-eyed and lovestruck when she returned to work on Monday.

Possibility Four: He could begin eating the sofa until they carried him off for furniture abuse. And mental illness.

He sat down, weary. Possibility Five: he could tell her he loved her and confuse her even more. Then she would hit him with his sofa, quit the SBPD, and run off with Asshatticus McAssidork.

As long as he was thinking things through: what the hell _was_ he going to do if she and Spencer showed signs of living happily ever after?

He _could_ be happy for her if she was genuinely happy with her life. He could. Loving her didn't preclude being willing for her to be happy with another man.

But could he stay on as her partner?

_Better think _that_ through too._

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Juliet called Carlton late in the afternoon. "You were debating whether to call me, weren't you?" She felt a bit bold asking.

"Yes," he admitted.

"But you didn't want to feel like you were intruding."

"Something like that."

"Carlton, I slapped you across the face yesterday and you still drove eighty miles to rescue me from myself. I think that entitles you to full intrusion rights, as well as my eternal gratitude."

He was silent a moment. "You need to stop thanking me. You're my partner and my friend and there's no way I'd have let you down."

"I know, but since I haven't acted much like a friend lately, you're getting my gratitude whether you like it or not, so suck it up."

"Sucking," he said at once, and she laughed. Wow, twice _he'd_ made her laugh when not a damn thing seemed funny. "I did wonder how you were doing."

Juliet thought she'd been ready for the question until it came from him, because Carlton would know if she was lying. He might not say anything about it—he would understand if she needed to make light—but he would know. And after kvetching at Shawn about honesty, she had to be completely honest with this man above all others.

"I'm… unsettled. But I'm okay." Which about summed it up, really. "Something else I owe to you. I really… I just have to say it again. If you hadn't come for me… my God. Yesterday of all days, I had no right to ask you for a damn thing, but you—" Her voice caught.

"O'Hara, please. Just… look, there wasn't anything on TV anyway."

Juliet laughed—three times now, she marveled. He was a wonder.

"Oh, Carlton," she sighed, and was happy again, and wasn't that a lovely feeling?

"You've seen… Shawn today?"

Another wow: Carlton calling him 'Shawn' was serious business. "Yes. He came over this morning expecting to move in but I put him off as gently as I could."

"Did he get to you?"

The question was noncommittal, non-judgmental.

_Did he get to you?_

"No. Not like that. But I do see what you mean about taking it slow—not because I'm likely to feel differently, but because I have to show him over time that I won't. The problem is, there isn't a lot of time left."

"What do you mean?" Sharp. "Are you thinking about leaving here?"

"God no," she exclaimed. "Never. But I did some Googling and it takes six months for a divorce to be finalized in California. I guess you knew that already, but I didn't. That means the longer I wait to file, the longer this drags out."

"When did you want to file?"

"Monday if possible."

Carlton made a _hmmm_ sound. "Yeah, that's not going to seem to Spencer like you're giving it a chance."

Spencer. Actually, she preferred that. 'Shawn' sounded wrong coming from him.

"I don't… I don't want to give it a chance."

He paused. "It's too soon for you to be sure."

"You said that last night, but Shawn's not the only one who had an epiphany yesterday—although as it turns out his was really on Thursday. I had mine last night. It's what made me call you in the first place."

Again, the silence on his end was long. "I just don't want you to have any more regrets, Juliet."

She swallowed. Something about his use of _her_ first name was so intimate, even though he probably didn't intend it that way, and certainly it wouldn't strike _her_ that way if she weren't so messed up about everything.

"I don't either, Carlton. I want to do this—end this—right."

"Then time is what you need," he said simply.

Her partner was turning out to know just about everything.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Juliet awoke to bright sunshine, a cool breeze, a sense of things not being horrible… and music.

Music, but her clock radio was off.

She sat up. _Please don't let Shawn be in my apartment_.

Even as she scolded herself for such a wrong-headed knee-jerk reaction (after all, he wasn't an enemy; she'd been dating him for a year), she was also analyzing the music and its source. Probably a neighbor kid in his car, right?

Sure it was. Still, she got out of bed and went quickly to the front window, pulling aside the curtain and looking down into the parking lot.

Next to her Bug, upon which rested a boombox, stood Shawn.

He was lip-synching… it appeared… and the song was "Don't You Forget About Me," at a very high volume. He had on his best ratty jeans under an oversized tan suit jacket, his hair was freshly gelled, and a little tiny voice in her head muttered _all the trouble he takes to seem like he takes no trouble at all, and it's all about looking almost grungy_.

Already appalled instead of charmed, she yanked the front door open.

He had just gotten to the first round of "don't don't don't don't" and grinned up at her, swaying to his toy microphone.

"Shawn!" she yelled. "I have neighbors!"

He only smiled and led into the line "we'll win in the end."

Beyond him, she gradually realized some of those neighbors were leaning against cars on the far side of the lot. Some looked skeptical but none seemed about to rush him. Except maybe Manny, who was carrying a crowbar.

She slammed the door and made quick work of pulling on jeans and a tee, finger-combing her hair and going back for another attempt at shutting him up.

"I'll put us _back_ to_get_her at _heart_, bay-by," he mouthed to Jim Kerr's soaring voice, giving her the Serious Shawn eye, but she was now profoundly irritated.

"Shawn, turn that off!"

"Can't!" he yelled back in a pause, swaying slowly during the break.

"Then turn it down!" She went down several steps, but Shawn was unstoppable. "Good Lord," she muttered, and decided to wait it out, arms folded tight and hard against her middle.

It wasn't even nine a.m. She'd only slept that late because sleep had been fitful, and to be woken by something which was surely pissing off her neighbors as well as unnecessarily dramatic was not a good way to start the day.

The song faded out and she asked, "Are you done?"

"Not by a long shot, my sweet, sweet Jules." He bowed, adjusted his toy mike—was that glitter on the side?—and resumed swaying to what was unmistakably the start of "In Your Eyes."

To her further dismay, she spotted next to the boombox a stack of CDs. A _stack_.

_Oh hell no_, she thought, and returned to her apartment, locking the door behind her. Rapidly making no-doubt foolish decisions, she brushed her teeth, washed her face, found her shoes, listened to Peter Gabriel (albeit muffled) sing "I am the doorway to a thousand churches" and thought it highly unlikely in Shawn's case, and with a final savage brush to her hair, grabbed the same items she'd grabbed on Friday night in the hotel room: phone, keys, wallet.

There was a _back_ door to this damn place, and she intended to use it.

Gus was sitting in one of her patio chairs. "Hello, Juliet."

"Gus, what the hell does he think he's doing?" She locked the door and faced him angrily.

"Wooing you," he said simply.

Juliet felt her jaw clenching. "Does he understand I have neighbors? And it's still what some people call early?"

"He already talked to them." Gus said it calmly, but she recognized the uneasiness in his demeanor.

"What do you mean he talked to them?"

"He went door-to-door. He told all of them he was trying to win you over and that he might be a little loud for a while but if they'd just give true love a chance, they'd never regret it."

Juliet stared at him. "Oh. My. _God_."

Gus nodded. "Yeah."

"So you're here to, what, stop me leaving?"

"He said you might run."

"He said I might run," she repeated in disbelief. "Are you actually _condoning_ this dumbass move on his part?"

He stood up, smoothing his khakis with feigned calm. "He asked me to watch the back, and I'm his friend so I said yes."

"I'm surprised you're not speed-dialing him right now." She knew she sounded bitter, and Gus didn't really deserve it.

"I'm busy watching the back," he said calmly.

Juliet hesitated, sensing there was a second layer to his words. "Yes, so you said."

"It's a big… back, Juliet. There's a lot to watch." With that, he turned slowly to face away from her, whistling a little as he gave great care to studying the other decks and windows.

Her heart lightened considerably. "Thanks, Gus. Give me a ten-minute head start and then please, please for the love of God tell him to stop tormenting my neighbors?"

She watched the back of his head long enough to see his nod, and went down the back steps like a shot.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Carlton had been awake for hours, just as restless as he was yesterday. His short phone conversation with Juliet had been the one bright spot in the day, in large part because she hadn't sounded much as if she was leaning toward remaining Mrs. Spencer.

When his phone rang, he nearly lunged for it, ready to take a bloody homicide over staying here going insane.

Juliet's name was on the screen.

"O'Hara?"

"Hey. Um…"

Immediate concern. "What is it?"

"Um… oh, geez. Look, I'm about three blocks from your place. Are you busy? Can I… hang out with you for a while?"

_Hell yeah._

"Uh—sure. You can try one of these muffins I just took out of the oven."

Well, _that_ sounded froo-froo.

Juliet laughed. "I'd love to. What kind?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," he said tartly. "Just hurry up."

She was laughing as she disconnected, and Carlton was way too proud of being able to make her happy even in a superficial way.

By the time she knocked on the door he had two muffins (blueberry) set out on the table and a fresh pot of coffee brewing.

She looked fresh and slightly wind-tossed—no makeup, he noted, but she never needed any in his opinion. "Good morning," she said warmly, and before he saw it coming, stepped into his arms for a hug.

_Oh. _

_Yes. _

_More please. _

Stepping back again, she drank deep of the scents from the kitchen. "You really did make muffins!"

"I astound myself sometimes," he said with mock severity, and gestured to a chair. "Coffee's on the way."

He sat across from her, watching with approval as she broke off a chunk of the muffin and popped it into her mouth. "Heaven," she said with a blissful smile. "Also my first meal."

"You need to take care of yourself," he admonished.

"Yeah? Aren't you the guy who lived for three days on nothing but coffee and trail mix because you were 'in the zone' on the Crawford case and didn't want to go home in case you lost your mojo?"

"Yeah?" he echoed. "What's your point?"

Juliet smirked and ate more muffin.

"So why are you on the loose this morning?"

"I've been walking," she said carefully, with a glance to her watch. "Huh. Just past ten. Seems like every key moment lately has been around ten."

"They're only muffins; hardly a key moment." He waited for her smile, because he loved it. "Hang on. Coffee should be up."

When he brought two large mugs out a few minutes later, she had tucked one leg up underneath her and the muffin was half-gone, so he turned around again to get her another one.

"Okay, now start." He put his feet up on the other chair—he was allowed to do that; it was his chair—and started in on his own muffin and java.

Juliet relaxed a little more. "I ran away from my apartment because Shawn was out front serenading me. Or rather, his boombox was serenading me."

He started to say "idiot" but bit it back. It wasn't actually that idiotic a move, but the man's timing was way off and Carlton had yet to hear Juliet's full reaction.

"'Disco Duck'?" he suggested neutrally.

Juliet grinned. "Not quite. I might have stuck around for novelty songs. No, it was the usual eighties stuff." Now she sighed. "Just… it's always too much, Carlton. It's always too loud, too long, too frenzied, too 'on,' too… you name it, it's too much."

"Too soon."

"Yes." She pushed a lock of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "Definitely too soon."

"What are you going to tell people at work tomorrow?"

"If it were entirely my choice?"

He smiled slightly. "Let's pretend."

"Nothing," she said flatly. "But I know I can't get away with that. I need to tell the Chief, and I'm going to recommend she not let us—or me anyway—work with Psych until this is over."

"It would be no great hardship for me to not work with Spencer awhile," he allowed.

"You understand why, right?"

"Appearances."

"Exactly. You… I kept thinking about what you said on Friday. About me showing favoritism. I—"

He broke in, hating the memory of everything about that fight. "O'Hara, I am so sorry. It was totally unfair and I shouldn't have—"

She raised her voice. "It wasn't unfair and my point is only that if you ever thought it for even one second, other people thought it too. So if it came out that I married the same consultant I was already thought to be showing favoritism to, it'd be bad for the department as well, and I figure Chief Vick gets enough grief because of Shawn as it is."

"I'm sure she'd agree." He had another sip of coffee, watching her. "What do you want me to say when people ask me?"

"You mean because you've already figured out Shawn won't keep it quiet," she said wryly.

"'Disco Duck' and 'Tarzan Boy' gave me a clue, yeah."

"'Tarzan Boy'? Carlton, really?" she asked, laughing.

"'Safety Dance,' then," he said, unaccountably happy.

"I don't know. I can sort of hear Shawn doing a fairly creditable jungle cry." She tilted her head, smiling at him. Shining at him. She had no idea what she was doing to him.

"So what do you want me to say?"

The smile, surprisingly, didn't fade. "Well, the Carlton I know would bark 'None of your damn business; now get back to work.'"

"Not bad. I don't sound that girly, though."

"I do not sound girly!" she protested.

Carlton couldn't help but laugh, even though nothing about this conversation or scenario was supposed to be funny. "How about if I add that when you have something to say, you'll say it."

"Perfect. Thank you." She ate the rest of her first muffin and started in on the second. "I'm going to call Shawn later and ask him to please keep a lid on it but it's probably already too late."

"Probably. But you know I'll run interference for you."

Juliet smiled at him—and dammit her dark blue eyes were misty again. "I know you will. You're… you're the castle guard."

"Which makes you the princess I'm sworn to protect," he said lightly.

She gazed at him for a long time, so very still in her chair, and his heart began to beat crazily.

"Then I'll be safe forever, won't I?" It was so quiet.

He let out a breath. "Until my dying day, Juliet."

The silence was deep… and rich… and as she smiled tremulously at him, his words echoed in his head and heart.

_Until my dying day._

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet drew a deep, spine-stiffening breath.

This was just the police station. She'd worked here for years. These people were her friends and colleagues. There would be no pointing or staring or laughing or mockery.

Right. Of course not!

She took a sharp left at the steps and sat on the low wall outside the main entrance, collecting herself.

After a minute, her phone rang.

"O'Hara, get in here," Carlton said firmly.

"You cannot possibly see me."

"No, but I saw you parking your car, and unless you were abducted by aliens between there and the front door, you're hiding somewhere in the bushes."

She looked around sheepishly. "Close enough. Has anyone said anything?"

"No, and the Chief is alone in her office."

"Will you go in with me?"

"I told you last night I would. Stop worrying and get your Scottish butt _in_ here."

She'd spent most of Sunday with him. They watched a movie (_Local Hero_, with plenty of wonderful scenery from coastal Scotland), he taught her the Lassiter family recipe for spaghetti sauce (which was remarkably like non-Lassiter family spaghetti sauce recipes, but tasted especially good all the same) and they argued about two of their active cases, because oh yeah, they were cops and they would have plenty of work to do once the week started.

He hadn't pressed her on anything, he didn't seem at all uncomfortable about her being in his space, he didn't tell her she should answer Shawn's calls and texts, and she could not stop thinking about the look in his sea-blue eyes when he said he'd protect her until his dying day.

Because that hadn't sounded like Detective Lassiter, loyal partner, talking.

It had sounded like Carlton, the man.

Kinda made her feel shivery, too. Quite possibly even _extremely_ shivery.

She _wanted_ to stop thinking about it. She had no business considering Carlton the man, let alone Carlton the single, attractive, incredibly blue-eyed man. He was her friend, and she was in a stupid self-induced mess and he was Being There For Her, and she could not afford to have any unduly shivery thoughts about him now.

Not while she was married. _Married_, damn it.

Her phone buzzed again with a text: _Coward_.

She sent back: _Potato-head_.

But she got up, braced herself anew, and strode up the steps as if she hadn't completely lost her mind on Friday.

Carlton was standing in the middle of the bullpen, arms folded, jacket off and tie already loose. He eyed her critically, nodded slightly, and joined her in front of Chief Vick's door. "You can do this."

Just before she knocked, he added in a mutter, "Haggis-breath."

Juliet looked at him, startled, and laughed despite all of her trepidation. "You slithy tove!"

"Well, that's not… _anything_," he protested. "You have to stick with the proper ethnic slurs!"

Chief Vick called from her desk, "No ethnic slurs in the station, please."

They walked in together, Juliet rapidly losing her good mood. Carlton closed the door and sat in the chair next to hers.

"Chief."

"O'Hara." Karen Vick's eyebrow went up slightly. "I got your message about a personal emergency causing your run out of here on Friday." Before Juliet could so much as nod, Karen turned her deep brown gaze to Carlton. "I also heard something about a screaming match between the two of you."

"We resolved our… issue, Chief, and it will not happen again." His tone was uncompromising.

Vick, unimpressed, smiled. "Sure it will. You're partners."

"Not ever again like _that_," he qualified, still stern, and Juliet knew he was absolutely correct: neither of them would ever go so far again.

"I hope so. As an aside, you know 'slithy tove' is from _Jabberwocky_, right?"

"Yes, but Lewis Carroll is _English_." He was slightly impatient. "If you're going to start with potato-head for the Irish and move on to haggis-breath for the Scots, you can't just randomly throw the English in there too."

Juliet was trying not to laugh. He took his snarkery very seriously. (A little like Shawn, but she would eat dirt before telling Carlton such a thing.)

"But the entire United Kingdom is represented," Vick persisted. "A little abuse for everyone."

"There _were_ some wayward Englishmen in my family history," Juliet offered.

"Irish too," Carlton said pointedly. "I've been telling you for years O'Hara is an Irish name."

She suddenly remembered the old come-on—"_Got any Irish in ya? No? Ya want some_?"—and the idea of Carlton saying such a thing to her flooded her with a most unexpected but not entirely unwelcome heat.

"Chief," she said abruptly. "I want you to hear this from me, and Carlton's here for moral support. I married Shawn on Friday afternoon."

Karen stared at her, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

Juliet helped her out. "I'm... not particularly happy about it, and congratulations are _not_ in order."

"Oh, thank _God_ for that," Karen breathed. "How much alcohol was involved?"

"Not as much as you'd think. I realized within hours what a mistake I'd made and I've asked Shawn to… to stand down," she finished helplessly.

Carlton's expression was neutral. "Whether he will or not remains to be seen."

"I need time to work through this, and I'm trying to be careful about it, but at the heart of everything is the certainty that I need to get out of this marriage as soon as possible. I don't know what it means for my relationship with Shawn. I don't know if it ends now or goes on life support or what. But the marriage… _that's_ coming to an end, because that should never have happened in the first place. Not the way it did."

She could feel Carlton's watchful gaze on her, but she kept her focus on the Chief.

Karen nodded, as if somehow this impossible craziness made sense to her. "So you'd like to be discreet, at a minimum."

"Yes. And obviously I shouldn't work any cases for which Psych is hired. It's one thing to have dated one of our consultants, but—"

"But being married to one creates the appearance of impropriety," Karen supplied. "Yes, I agree. You'll pass off any cases they might be needed for, and if you play your cards right and the criminals cooperate, they won't be needed any time soon."

"God willing," Carlton muttered.

"Him too," Karen agreed. She was still staring at Juliet. "Seriously. _How_ much alcohol?"

She was chagrined. "I wish it were more than one bottle of sangria on an empty stomach."

"It _is_ more."

Juliet looked at Carlton, whose blue gaze was steady and calming.

He turned to Karen. "There was some Spencerian psychological manipulation involved."

"Yeah," Juliet admitted. "But it's not like I didn't know better."

"Well," Karen said reasonably, "he is very good at what he does. No reason he couldn't use his skills on you too."

No reason, thought Juliet, except his supposed love for her, and honest love shouldn't come with games when only one of them was playing.

**. . . .  
. . .**

Carlton kept an eye on Juliet throughout the morning. So far he knew of no talk swirling around her—although both of them got the occasional Look from those who'd heard the tone of their argument on Friday.

It had been fierce. He regretted all of it, and not just because it had contributed to her subsequent marriage.

No one had asked questions that day: his long-perfected steely glare worked perfectly. He hoped he didn't have to use it today as well on her behalf.

Over mid-morning coffee in the conference room, he asked if she'd called Shawn after he took her home.

"I did." She sat in the closest chair, turning to face him. "I asked as nicely as I could if he'd consider keeping it quiet."

"And?"

"He said 'I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that' and started singing 'Baby Come Back.'"

_Crap_. He didn't say it out loud. "And you said?"

"I asked him again." Her voice had dropped, and he sat down to hear her better. She swallowed, her free hand gripping the arm of the chair.

_Crap, crap, crap_. He couldn't help himself: he reached out and covered that warm, soft hand with his.

Juliet gradually relaxed, and he withdrew his hand—but she caught it, clasping it gently for one more moment… or three… before releasing him. "He asked why I wanted to hide our marriage. He said it was something to be proud of, to be announced to the world."

"If it were a normal marriage, he'd be right."

"He would." She drew a deep breath. "I asked him again, very specifically and without anger, to please honor my request that he not talk about the marriage right now. I explained that I wasn't trying to hurt him but rather to get my head together and make the best decision possible. He said there was no decision to make, because we love each other and we should be together. He actually—" She stopped, shaking her head. "He actually sounds as if he honestly has no idea what my problem is."

"Because he's an…" _Don't say it. Do not say 'asshat.'_

Juliet smiled—that same knowing smile she'd used on him a million times before. "I have an appointment to see a lawyer today at four. I started looking up attorneys after the phone call ended by me hanging up abruptly when he began to sing 'Every Breath You Take.'"

Carlton wasn't sure whether to say 'I'm so sorry' or 'Atta girl' so he opted for a noncommittal nod. He trusted her instincts. He just didn't want her to wonder later if she'd acted too quickly.

"I always thought the lyrics to that sounded stalkerish," he commented without thinking it through, and her eyes widened. "Not that you have to worry about him stalking you."

_Because I'll shoot him first._

"Because you'll find him a shallow grave first," she said more lightly, but once again her smile was knowing—never seeming mocking but rather _I know you and I like you anyway_.

It was of the things he was confident about, although often puzzled: she did like him. He couldn't imagine why, but she liked him. And she trusted him. And he wished he could touch her hand again.

"I wonder what Henry thinks of the results of his little heart-to-heart with Junior," he mused, leaning back in the chair.

Juliet held her mug with both hands. "I'm sure it's not what he intended. I wonder if Shawn's even told him yet."

"He told your entire apartment complex! Why wouldn't he tell—wait, never mind. I forgot who we were talking about. His reasons for doing _anything_ are always convoluted."

She grimaced. "The other thing that serves me right about being so stupid is what it's going to cost to get out of it."

"I'll help you," he said at once.

"Oh Carlton, thanks so much, but—you've been through it once yourself. I can do it. It's just ironic that after telling him so emphatically I didn't have debt and intended to keep it that way, I'll end up going into debt at least temporarily after all."

"You call it irony. I call it incredibly unfair." He ran his hand through his hair, restless, because _none_ of this was fair at all. "Is annulment an option?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I read the possible qualifications and it looks like the only one which applies is fraud, but how can I prove I was essentially tricked into marrying him? And plus it's a big nasty thing to say in court, isn't it? That my boyfriend intentionally deceived me?"

_But he did_, Carlton thought, watching her. _And she _knows_ he did_.

"Just tell the lawyer everything," he finally said. "Make sure he has all the facts so he can give you the best advice."

Juliet was uncomfortable, shifting in her chair. "I'll do my best."

"Please."

Again those dark blue eyes widened.

"Juliet," he said, her first name still feeling like a sweet and secret privilege, "for your future and your peace of mind, tell the lawyer everything."

She held his gaze a long while, and the silent message he sent her—if she could read it as well as she seemed to read everything else about him—was that he cared about her and expected her to care for herself just as much. "I will. I promise."

McNab came to the door to collect them for a scheduled witness interview, and Carlton hoped the rest of Juliet's day would be Spencer-free.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

At home that evening, Juliet weighed everything the attorney had told her.

The woman was in her fifties, pleasant and forthright, and Juliet felt comfortable enough to do as Carlton had (again, so wisely) advised: she tried to explain everything, starting with… Shawn. Explaining Shawn was tricky in and of itself, of course, even to people who knew him. But as it turned out, Camille Hughes had seen Shawn on TV a few times and had a sense of his personality (certainly his ego) already.

At first she said annulment was unlikely, but the more she listened, and particularly when Juliet got to the credit card use, she started looking thoughtful.

But Juliet was reluctant to flat-out say Shawn had intentionally defrauded her into marriage. It meant a public record of not only his duplicity but also of her stupidity, and neither aspect was appealing.

Camille gave her forms for both and told her the same thing Carlton had: _think about this_. She told her to use the week to consider all three options: divorce, annulment, and reconciliation.

Juliet didn't want to think about it. She was only four nights into this stupid marriage and she was already really, really tired of thinking about it.

Shawn had left an autographed photo of the two of them on her door. It was poster-sized, staring at her as she walked up the steps, mocking her with how simple everything had been when he was only her 'fun' boyfriend whose company she shared a few times a week. Back when all the flaws in his nevertheless solid friendship with Gus seemed as if they would never touch _her_—because Shawn would never treat _her_ that way, because he would never _want_ to, because he wasn't _really_ as narcissistic as he seemed: it was all an act. For show. For fun. For a _laugh_.

Well, no more laughing.

Getting ready for bed, she couldn't help but think of Carlton, who had been rock solid for her over the past few days. Today in the conference room, when he'd touched her hand—that had been so nice. He'd made her feel both protected and trusted by that simple action, and she'd hated to let go of him after.

She'd hated it a little too much. Dammit. She could not, should not, be having thoughts like this about him… she sighed.

Too late.

At any rate, the poster was off the door, rolled up and dropped behind the sofa.

If only it could be so easy to undo Friday afternoon.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Carlton was relieved to see Juliet looking a bit brighter when she came in on Tuesday morning. All of Monday passed without so much as a hint that anyone knew about the elopement, and while he knew this peace couldn't last, he was glad she could have any stay of execution at all.

Plus, she brought crullers for them both, and that was always good.

What was best—although terrifying—was when she stood by his desk with a folder and suddenly reached down and brushed a crumb off his shirt and then straightened his collar. It was terrifying because it felt very personal, and more so because she turned a little pink when their eyes met… but didn't jerk back. In fact, she went on to brush another and possibly imaginary crumb away as well, and then handed him the folder as if he had any muscle control left.

The moment passed, as moments like that _should_ pass, and morning turned into afternoon.

They were having a rather spirited discussion (read: argument) about the witness statement in their extortion case when Carlton noticed a disturbance down the hall.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed, already angry.

Juliet followed his gaze, and he really wished she hadn't.

He really _really_ wished she hadn't.

Spencer, wearing a white tux and top hat and twirling a baton (it was probably supposed to be a cane), was leading a parade of three floral delivery men who each carried two dozen red roses.

Everyone stopped, got out of the way, and stared as the procession made its way through the bullpen and inexorably closer to Juliet, who was on her feet now, two bright spots of color on her pale face.

To complete the spectacle, Spencer was holding a pink rose between his teeth.

He looked determined. He looked ridiculous. He looked like a man who didn't care what he looked like.

It was either brilliant or demonically dumbass.

"Shawn, please," Juliet said shakily. "Why are you—please, just turn around and leave."

He took the pink rose out of his mouth and stuck it behind his ear. "I cannot, my sweet Juliet." He dropped to one knee, the delivery guys fanning out behind him still nervously holding their flowers, and cleared his throat. "For you, I will now sing one of the finest love ballads ever written—"

"No!" she said, pleading. "Please, no, just go. Please!"

Carlton stepped in, glaring down at Spencer and hissing, "She is asking you to leave."

Spencer glared back. "_You_ need to back off, Detective Lassiter. This crusade is not yours to interrupt."

_You're the castle guard_, he heard Juliet say in his head.

"Yeah, it kinda is." He barked at the delivery guys, "Clear out."

"The flowers," one said plaintively.

"Take them, leave them, I don't care. Just go."

"Stay!" commanded Shawn. "I need you for backup vocals."

The tallest one said, "Buddy, I told you in the parking lot I don't sing."

"_Go_," Carlton repeated, and his steely glare was enough to make all three of them skedaddle, dumping the roses on Dobson's desk as they passed in a hurry.

"Fine. I'll do it alone. It won't be easy to harmonize, though. Jules, you might want to sit down for this. I'm gonna take it slower than usual."

"Oh God, Shawn, please don't do this to me. Not here." She was whispering, her hands trembling, and Carlton wanted to punch Spencer in the face for making Juliet so unhappy.

Right before he whisked her into his arms and held her tight for the next fifty years.

"But I can't _find_ you anyplace else, and how else can I make you see? Or make you feel?" Spencer smiled sincerely. "Because I know you do _feel_, honey."

_Damn him. As monumentally stupid as he is, the whackaloony little fraud loves her._

Juliet's hand went to her mouth and her eyes were misty and Carlton—maybe only Carlton—knew she was _not_ starry-eyed. She was trying not to cry. Everyone was staring unabashedly, which of course had been Spencer's goal beyond winning his woman back, and she was all too conscious of the attention as well as what lay ahead: an entirely unwelcome serenade.

Carlton was done waiting for Spencer to get the message. Clamping a hand onto his shoulder, he applied enough pressure to get Spencer to stand up on his own, protesting loudly all the while. He dragged him away from Juliet and through the multitude of curious co-workers, who managed a rather impressive _group_ skedaddle after his single roar, "Get back to work!"

Throwing Spencer into the conference room and slamming the door, he shoved him into the far corner so Juliet wouldn't be able to easily see him gut-punch the idiot (if it came to that, and he might not mind if it did).

"Okay, Lassie," Spencer said sarcastically, getting his composure back quicker than he'd expected. "This is where you threaten to make good on that promise to shoot me, right?"

Carlton unclenched his fists. _Look calm. Speak calmly_. "Spencer, I would never do that here in the station."

Spencer had the sense to look momentarily nervous, but his bluster came back. "This is none of your business, you know."

"You just damn well made it _everyone's_ business!"

"Do you even know what's at stake here?"

"Yeah, I do. Maybe more than you, Spencer."

Spencer nodded. "So she told you. I'm not allowed to tell anyone, but she told you."

"You told _your_ friend, she told hers," Carlton said flatly.

This statement was not to Spencer's liking, and he drew himself up tall. "Get out of my way. I want to talk to my _wife_, and if you're not going to shoot me, then we're done chit-chatting."

Carlton slammed his hand to Spencer's chest, stopping his forward movement. "I'm not going to shoot you. I'm not even going to kick you in the ass… _yet_. But I do have one question."

"Ask it already! Before I forget the lyrics to the second verse."

He pushed him back toward the wall. "Why do you want to hurt her?"

Spencer was affronted. "I don't want to hurt her. I know love is a foreign concept to _you_, Lassie, but I _love_ Juliet. I wouldn't hurt her for anything."

_Remember, you can't kill him. _

_Not here, anyway._

"She asked you to keep quiet about this. How in the hell is dressing like that and marching in with the California State Floral Association keeping it quiet? Could you not see how upset she was? Did you think those were _happy_ tears in her eyes? Did your scientific marvel of a brain somehow translate 'please leave' into 'please stay and humiliate me in front of my co-workers'?"

"It shouldn't be humiliating to have your husband tell you he loves you!" Spencer shot back.

"When a woman asks you to leave, and you don't, it's humiliating. When she says please don't make a spectacle of me, and you ignore her, it's humiliating. This really isn't that damn hard, Spencer. If you want to salvage anything of your relationship, then get the hell out _now_."

Spencer was silent, his hazel eyes giving nothing away—something he was very good at. He said coolly, "Let me pass."

Carlton stepped back, but not willingly, and followed Spencer out into the bullpen.

Juliet was at her desk, sitting very still and very pale. She stood up when Spencer approached, gripping the side of the desk for support.

"Jules, come outside and talk to me." He held out his hand.

Her eyes met Carlton's and he clearly read the uncertainty in their dark blue depths. He ached for her, but could not make her decision.

"Please," Spencer said quietly. "Just talk to me."

She nodded almost imperceptibly, and let him take her right hand, but as they passed Carlton, she made a point of brushing her left hand against his. It was so quick it might have been an accident, one he was sure no one else saw (their supposedly-busy-with-their jobs attention on Spencer in his tux)—but she turned her fair head and looked at him and he knew it was no accident at all.

_Be strong_, he told her with his heart, as she walked down the hall with her husband.

**. . . . **

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"How did you pay for the flowers and tux?"

She'd led him a little further down from the alcove where she hid out on Monday morning, and sat on the wrought-iron bench half-shielded by the trees. Being out of the view of every single one of her gawking co-workers was doing a lot to restore her grip on sanity.

Shawn joined her, top hat in hand. She wondered where the baton was and hoped Carlton was making sure the roses were out of her sight when she went back in.

"You keep forgetting I have a job, Jules. I do have actual income of my own."

"I suppose so, but I only ever hear about you spending _Gus'_ income."

Shawn sighed, putting his arm behind her on the bench. "Jules. What happened to us?"

Juliet leaned forward slightly so his arm didn't touch her (_why do I keep doing that? I didn't even want to take his hand inside_) and looked at him consideringly. "What was the song going to be?"

He brightened. "'Open Arms.' Want to hear it? I practiced all morning. I think I really got my Steve Perry down. I considered doing a Tyler Perry voice instead but decided to go traditional."

When he seemed about to sing, she raised her hand in protest. "No. No, really. I'm good. I know you're going for a theme here, but Shawn, this has to stop. I guess you think I'm going to melt into a puddle of lovesick goo if you find just the right song but all you're doing is making me embarrassed and angry and uncomfortable."

"But why? Why does it make you embarrassed and angry and uncomfortable to be married to me? What happened to the beautiful woman who gladly told me yes on Friday?" He was as earnest as she'd ever seen him—_scratch that_: as earnest as he'd been in the car that day, soliloquizing about why they should marry.

Juliet sighed. "I don't know, Shawn, but I'll be honest. I met with a divorce attorney yesterday."

His mouth hung open. "_Why_? We haven't even been married a week and you already want to end it? That's not fair. That's not even logical. We've been together over a year. We've known each other and… and _admired_ each other for a lot longer. You can't just give up on us overnight."

"I'm not… necessarily… giving up on _us_," Juliet said, and that was the first lie she'd told him. "I'm saying the marriage shouldn't have happened."

"But… I don't understand. You want to end the marriage but not the relationship?"

She was starting to feel sick again, and wrapped her arms around herself. "I want to end the marriage. I honestly don't know about the relationship." There. That was as close as she could get to the truth, and a little voice hissed _it's a lot closer than _he_ usually gets_.

Shawn was watching her, judging, assessing: ever the analyst in his own dysfunctional way. "You're saying I could call you up tonight and say hey let's go see a movie and you'd come out with me?"

Juliet closed her eyes. "No. Not this week."

"Next week then?"

"Shawn."

"I'm serious, Jules; I have a right to know." He was getting more agitated. "Are we together or not?"

Dry mouth. Cold skin. Roiling stomach. _I wish Carlton were here_.

"I don't know," she whispered.

Shawn was staring at her—she could feel it—and she finally opened her eyes to face him.

"How am I supposed to win you back when I didn't even know I'd lost you? Because that's what I'm hearing, Jules. That I lost you and I don't get a do-over."

"I'm not saying anything about the future," she insisted. "I just don't want us to be married!"

"When we went up to that resort and met Barbie and Clive you did."

"No, Shawn, that was _you_. That was you who brought it up. And I told you anything like that was far, far ahead of us. Remember?"

Apparently not, because he barreled on, "And you were trying to get me to move in with you right before my dad got shot," he accused.

"I wanted you to spend the _weekend_ with me, not move in. And then when he got shot everything was up in the air. I barely saw you for weeks afterward and it was obvious you weren't ready for anything complicated while you were still reeling from that."

His eyes were glittering and impossible to read, just like nearly always. "How did you get home Friday night?"

The shift in focus took her aback. "What?"

"I was just thinking. You cancelled your credit card and I know you didn't have much money. How did you get home?"

He already suspected. But so what? What was the problem?

"I called Carlton."

Bingo: his face darkened. "Why? Why in the hell would you call _him_ when you could have asked me to take you home?"

Juliet had to remind herself again that she was an officer of the law and not allowed to strangle people.

"Shawn, you weren't listening to a word I said and the two most important things on your mind that night, as I recall, were watching _Webster_ and using my credit card. I couldn't make you understand me on any other point so the odds of you slinging your butt into Gus' stolen car to take me home were pretty damn slim."

"I didn't steal Gus' car!"

"You _did_. You took his company car without permission. I'm a cop, remember? I kinda know about this stuff?"

Not surprisingly, he chose to let it go. "But why in God's name would you call Lassie? Of all people?"

"Of _all_ people? What's that mean? He's my friend! My partner and my _friend_!"

He scowled. "I'm your husband!"

"Would you stop saying that!" she snapped.

"No! Why should I? We _are_ married, and you _are_ my wife. And you told Lassie we're married! You let him go all the way up there on _our_ wedding night so now he thinks he's all hero-y and has to protect you from me!" He got to his feet, hot with anger.

Juliet stood up too, equally irate. "He doesn't _have_ to protect me but I'm glad he wants to. You came here to do the one thing I specifically and repeatedly asked you not to do and I'm _delighted_ he stopped it."

"You asked me not to say we were married," he retorted, "and I never said one word about it in there. All I was going to do was sing the greatest love song ever written to my girl, because I miss you and I want you back in my life!"

_Oh, the tangled morass of his reasoning_, she thought, staring at him in disbelief.

"Then I get shoved around by Shovy McShover and thrown out on my ear. Fine. That's just great, Jules. Way to give me hope for our _future_."

Juliet could feel tears in her eyes, but she willed them not to fall. "The way you've ignored everything I've said this week doesn't give _me_ any hope for our future either."

Just like that, his anger was gone, draining away, leaving him looking younger and almost vulnerable.

"Jules, honey," he said quietly, "I _want_ us to have a future."

She couldn't take this much longer. She couldn't. "Then please, please give me the space I'm asking for right now."

For a minute they searched each other: Juliet didn't know what truth he sought, but she was hoping to see a reason, any reason at all, to believe she could be with him again. Like before. Before she'd tasted reality.

He shut down before she learned even one thing. "I'll call you in a few days. Please don't tell me I can't do that."

She managed a nod, and watched him walk away.

**. . . .  
. . . **

Carlton was at the filing cabinet by his desk, half-looking for a document and three-quarters watching out the window for any trace of Juliet and Spencer.

Nothing.

He'd gotten Dobson to take the flowers out—except the pink rose, which he left on Juliet's desk because he thought the disposal (or not) of that one was up to her—and had given the baton to Officer Allen down in Booking in case Spencer came back for it. Or Guster. It was probably his, and "borrowed." He seemed like the kind of guy who'd own a baton.

Everyone was studiously avoiding asking any questions. Most of them were avoiding even making eye contact with him—_don't notice me, I swear I'm working and minding my own business_—and to Carlton, that was a sign of his job having been well done. No one needed to be speculating about Juliet, and damn Spencer (again) for upsetting her.

When half an hour had passed, he decided he had both an obligation to patrol the perimeter of the station building, and the privilege of taking a break, so he headed outside to… _you know_… take a look. At things. Around the building. Because that would be prudent.

_Stop it. Leave her alone. If she's working it out with him, you absolutely should not interrupt. If she's licking her wounds, she'll let you know when she's ready to talk. If she's standing over his dead body, she'll call when it's time to conceal it. _

He lasted another five minutes, loitering at the employee bulletin board, and then he was out the door.

**. . . .  
. . .**

Juliet knew Carlton would come to her. She knew he'd hesitate but in the end his natural concern for her (fueled by his innate impatience) would win out.

What gave her pause was how much she wanted him to hurry up.

_You're using him._

_No… I'm appreciating him._

He had always been there for her. Maybe not always emotionally, but one way or the other he'd been a solidly _there_ presence in her life. Even in something as simple as how he stood alongside her when they were in a confrontation together, or more often when he stood slightly behind her and she could feel his heat and strength (and often aggravation—and sometimes that was soothing too)… Carlton was a _force_, and always a force she could rely on, generally without even thinking about it.

Shawn, she could never rely on. But she didn't want to think about him right now, although the whole reason she was still lurking outside (instead of sensibly back at her desk solving crime) was to think about him.

Well, maybe he wasn't the whole reason.

Maybe part of the reason was she wanted to be able to talk to Carlton alone.

Yeah… that could be it.

When he finally came to her, his blue eyes raked her up and down as if checking for damage—almost possessively—and that was oddly comforting too.

"Hey, partner," he said, stepping under the overhang of the tree. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She looked up at him, her arms once again wrapped tightly around her middle.

"You sure?"

"No."

Carlton's dark eyebrow went up. "Do I need to rephrase the question?"

She shook her head. "I'm… let's go with no. I'm okay, but I'm not okay."

He nodded, as if that made sense. "Is _he_ okay? I don't see any blood spatter and you didn't have enough time to hide the body."

Juliet smiled, already feeling a little better. "No one's dead yet."

He reached out and almost gingerly touched the side of her arm, but didn't he know she welcomed his touch?

No, she realized, he didn't.

"I consider myself a strong and independent person," she said abruptly. "I would like to be _able_ to get through crises on my own—and of course I know I _can_. I don't want to seem weak or feeble or overly emotional. It's already a liability that I'm…" she hesitated. "Pretty. Even when I'm wielding a gun, people—men—assume I'm going to lose it at the sight of a fluffy kitten or a broken fingernail."

Carlton was watching her, frowning but listening closely. "You _are_ a strong person, O'Hara. But let's be honest; you could also become a cat lady."

She laughed, sudden tears in her eyes. "I really, really don't want to cry on you all the time but Carlton…"

That was all she could manage before she lost it, before he said "Just come _here_ already," and pulled her into the safety of his arms.

Juliet, once she was secure against his chest—could feel the beat of his heart—experienced the oddest thing: the tears stopped. Even the _urge_ to cry stopped.

It was as if simply clinging to his warmth and strength was all she needed to get herself back together. He smelled good and he was _so warm_ and when she slid her arms around his back she was even closer and that was even better.

One of his hands was on her shoulder, his other arm around her lower back, and she could feel his breath on her hair and she thought clearly, so very clearly, _I do not want this moment to end_.

She sighed, and he murmured that everything would be all right, and if worst came to worst he would contact one of his previous arrestees who had a thing for dismemberment and then she was laughing again.

She lifted her head and he was smiling down at her and what she saw in those blue, blue eyes was the summation of everything that _should be_ between two people who trusted each other and cared about each other.

Years ago he wouldn't have touched her to save his life (hers, maybe) because he lived by his rigid code of self-control and was painfully, awkwardly trying to recover from the debacle of his exposed affair with Lucinda Barry.

Now he was holding her as closely as a man could hold a woman, and she liked it, and she knew it was absolutely insane and he was going to freak out about it but she couldn't help it: she lifted her head and kissed the side of his mouth.

Carlton's mouth.

Yes.

She heard his intake of breath, and he started to say her name—_Juliet_—and she kissed him again, on the mouth directly, just a soft, light kiss. Maybe a little too long, but still, it was only the barest tiniest tip of the iceberg of how much she suddenly wanted to kiss him a lot more. A hell of a lot more.

_Dear God, _so_ much more._

She could feel his tension building—even though he unmistakably responded to her—and here was the thing: she was married. Technicality maybe, but married. Still in a relationship with Shawn at the very least.

_Not available._

And that would freak Carlton—_her castle guard_—above all else.

So she stood down, resting her head on his chest again, listening to the pounding of his heart, thinking it matched hers, and after a while he relaxed his hold on her and she stepped out of his arms.

But not far. She still needed to feel the heat of him.

Meeting his wide blue gaze, she said quietly, "I am so lucky to have you."

He was searching for the right words, she knew, starting with and probably rejecting 'what the hell just happened?'

But he found them, his smoky voice low but clear: "The feeling is mutual."

Now _there_ was a leading remark.

Which feeling?

_Analyze that later. You have a husband to deal with._

Juliet pulled herself back to something closer to reality. "How are things inside?"

"Very quiet," he said meaningfully, "and if they do not remain so, _I_ will become very noisy."

"Oh… well now I'm torn," she said with a smile. "I do enjoy a good Lassiter group smackdown now and then."

Up went that dark eyebrow again. "There'll be other opportunities, I'm sure."

"Promises, promises," she said lightly, turning away to go back to the sidewalk.

"I keep them," he answered behind her, and she didn't have to look at him to see he was no longer smiling.

"I told Shawn I met with a lawyer," she said when he joined her on the walk. "He didn't like it much. But I think he gets that I really need him to back off awhile."

"Good." His tone was normal, but there was turmoil in the blue eyes.

"Thank you, by the way. For breaking up that nightmare-in-waiting."

"I told you to stop thanking me," he reminded her.

"I know. I told _you_ to suck it up."

"Standoff."

"Potato-head," she said with a small smile, and Carlton's return smile warmed her for the rest of the day.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Sleep.

_So little, every evil profound._

_Sucks lots, equally egregious piffle._

_Stupid Lassiter, ecky ecky ptang._

Carlton built these and other phrases to occupy his mind, since he obviously wasn't sleeping.

He _might_ have a better shot at sleeping if he were in his bed, but instead he was pacing his condo. Front door to bathroom and back again. Long slow strides.

Juliet had kissed him.

There was a 95% chance it was the kiss of a grateful friend—that's what it ought to have been, if she were to kiss him at all.

But the way it _felt_, brief as it was... felt like a 95% chance it was the kiss of… a woman.

To a man.

To him.

And that was insane.

As well as incredibly bad timing.

He stopped in the middle of the hall, breathing in the memory of holding her soft warm body close, knowing she had stopped crying and was hanging on to him because… because she _wanted_ to.

Because he made her feel safe, maybe. Or warm. Or he was a buffer. He didn't know. He only knew she'd been there by choice.

And she'd kissed him of her own free will.

Just a little kiss, to be sure.

But…

He started pacing again, tired and not tired at all, and relived it one more time. Then again.

Juliet's lips brushing his, her body pressed close, her hands on his back.

He took a wrong step as the words _she still belongs to Spencer_ poked at his brain, and it was entirely appropriate that he stubbed his toe on the edge of the sofa at the same time.

_Yeah. Go to bed, jackass. Juliet's _friend_ shouldn't be thinking this way about her. _

Stern words, logical and mature.

Still, when he finally did sink into sleep, his dreams took a turn for the sweetly intense crazy, and he rested all the better for it.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was pacing in her apartment too.

_The feeling is mutual._

Which feeling?

The _I'm lucky to have you as a friend_ feeling?

Or the feeling… the feeling she was feeling which she had no business feeling, because she was supposed to be working out what to do about Shawn, her boyfriend if nothing else?

She stopped and pressed her forehead to the cool metal door of the fridge.

_You have worked with Carlton for seven years. NOW is when you take an interest? I believe a doctor would call that… transference. _

_Well, I believe I would tell that doctor to get stuffed, because… because I would. So there_.

_Brilliant riposte, O'Hara._

Juliet sighed and put herself back to bed. Bottom line, she couldn't do anything about it, and maybe not for a long, long time.

Still, when she finally did sink into sleep, her dreams took a turn for the sweetly intense crazy, and she rested all the better for it.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton slung the extortioner into the back of the squad car and slammed the door. "Take him in, McNab."

Juliet, sunglasses on and hands on her hips, looked rightfully smug as she watched McNab drive away from the office building. They'd tag-teamed the suspect with verbal jabs until he finally confessed just to get them to leave him alone.

"We deserve a tall coffee for that job," she declared.

Carlton gestured across the street. "Coffee Cabana?"

She nodded smartly and in a few minutes they were seated outside the colorful joint under a blue and white umbrella, sipping their mutual drug of choice.

It was Thursday, late morning. Juliet was doing well, he thought. There'd been no more Spencer sightings, serenades, or stalker-esque behavior, or at least none she'd mentioned, and she seemed more relaxed than she'd been all week.

The sunshine and a satisfying arrest helped, he was sure.

Amazingly, there was still no talk about her marriage at the station. Although he was well aware people didn't tend to want to confide in him, it was hard not to _hear_ things, and even when people were being discreet, he could usually tell something was up simply because they acted like something was up. But nothing seemed to be up. And he'd heard nothing.

Maybe the Santa Clarita folks were slow about publishing marriage license notices. Fine by him.

As for the other thing… he sipped coffee, wishing his sunglasses were still on.

The other thing. The Kiss.

It had not been repeated, and there hadn't been any undue awkwardness between them.

He was aware of her. Oh yes, he was aware of Juliet. Her beautiful blue eyes, her smooth skin, her soft hair, the fragrance of her—all of her—and even the heat she gave off when she stood close: he was _very_ aware of her.

But then again, he'd been aware of Juliet for years. It was merely that this awareness hadn't been enhanced by the knowledge of how her warm lips felt brushing his.

Dammit.

"Hey, cops," said Henry Spencer, slinging himself into a chair at their table. "Thought I recognized that Crown Vic out there."

_Oh, this should be interesting. _

Juliet took off her sunglasses, and Carlton could read her mild uneasiness. "Hey Henry. How are you doing?"

He had a coffee even larger than theirs, and he grinned over the top of the cup. "I'm supposed to be cutting back on caffeine, so this is half decaf. Otherwise, I'm good. You guys killing time on taxpayer money?"

"We just arrested an extortioner, thanks for asking, and we _are_ allowed breaks," Carlton pointed out.

"I heard that. You didn't get doughnuts?" He winked at Juliet. Hale and hearty, having made a full recovery from his shooting, he appeared to have nothing on his mind but his coffee.

_Spencer didn't tell him._

He glanced at Juliet, who was frowning at Henry. She'd obviously figured it out for herself.

"No," he said slowly. "We didn't get doughnuts. Henry, have you talked to your son lately?"

Juliet looked at him in mild alarm; he held her gaze until she relaxed and nodded.

Henry, who'd been sipping coffee when the question was asked, had not missed this silent exchange. "Nope, haven't seen him since last week. I was going to ask _you_ about him, Juliet. What's up?"

"Is that normal? In your dysfunctional relationship? To go so long without talking to him?"

Henry turned his attention to Carlton. "Not really, but we had a knock-down drag-out and I expect he's still sulking about it."

"You had a fight?" Juliet was puzzled. "When was that?"

"Last Wednesday. Why? Look, getting shot didn't improve my patience any. What's going on? Is he okay?"

"He's fine," she assured him, albeit absently. "I saw him two days ago. You haven't talked to him in over a _week_? Because you argued?"

He smiled wryly. "Hey, it used to be years. And argued is too civil a word. It's been a long time since we had a fight that bad."

"What was it about?" Carlton asked abruptly, and Juliet shot him a warning look. But what the hell? It was going to come out anyway, and Henry Spencer was no threat to Juliet's peace of mind.

Henry eyed him shrewdly. "I don't believe that's any of your business, detective."

Juliet tapped on his arm. "Did you… have a heart-to-heart before that? You know, a…"

"I know what a heart-to-heart is, kid."

She persisted, "Did you give him advice about his future based on… you know, what you'd learned since you'd been shot?"

He nearly smirked. "Yeah, sure. But if you mean did we have a Hallmark movie kind of father-son chat, you're on the wrong street."

"What street are _you_ on?" Carlton asked, impatient and wanting a simple answer from a Spencer for once.

"Look, pal, you two obviously have some inside info and I'm the odd man out. Tell me what's going on or I take my Mega Java Half-Caf outta here."

Carlton looked at Juliet, raising his eyebrows.

She was half-sick, half-resigned. "Go ahead."

"Henry," he began, keeping it brisk. "I would like to introduce you to Juliet O'Hara, your new daughter-in-law."

Henry stared at him a moment, and then slowly turned to look at Juliet. "Come again?"

She was mute.

"Now, what the hell did you say to your son which made him talk Juliet into eloping with him?"

Henry was still staring at Juliet. "You… you _married_ him?" He rubbed his face hard, as if he might be dreaming. "When the hell did _this_ happen?"

"Friday afternoon." She sounded miserable.

"And… now you… hang on, did you say you hadn't seen him in two days?"

"I'm filing for divorce." Still miserable.

"Oh, God."

And yet he _wasn't_ saying 'wait stop don't leave my boy.'

"Henry," Carlton interjected, trying to keep them on track. "Was there or was there not some defining moment in your discussion with Junior which would lead him to think marrying Juliet was what he needed to do?"

Elbows on the table, Henry put his head in his hands. "God, no. Well… hell, maybe. Knowing how his mind works, yeah. I started out _trying_ to have a quiet talk, to give some fatherly advice, because nearly dying when you're not ready to go tends to remind you of a lot of important things, among which is that you raised up a son who lives like he's a teenager and honestly believes nothing ever has to change."

_As if he really needed reminding of that._

"But you know us. Between his bullheadedness and my… okay, _my_ bullheadedness, we don't really have quiet conversations. We have shouting matches. It's been awhile, though. Things calmed down over the last few years. But I must have hit a nerve because Shawn went ballistic. So…" He looked wry. "So I kept on. Maybe he was just still scared because he almost lost me. Maybe I just got him on a bad day. We both said some ugly things to each other—or hard truths neither one of us wanted to hear, anyway."

"What did you say about Juliet?" Carlton asked. Across the table, Juliet was drawing in on herself, focused on what Henry was saying but holding herself tight against what exactly she might hear. He wished—as he so often wished—that he could simply touch her. Soothe her.

"Well." Henry was uncomfortable. "I said… sorry, honey, but I said he was going to lose you if he didn't make any effort to be a man instead of a boy. I said no way would a woman like you stick with someone she couldn't count on to do simple things like pay bills and show up on time. I said you were a great girl and more tolerant of his antics than most women but eventually you'd wise up and move on." He peered at her. "And you proved me wrong by _marrying_ him? How the hell did he talk you into it?"

"Sangria," she said, her voice very small.

"And lies," Carlton added. "Namely, that he'd had an 'epiphany' about his future after a sweet little talk with _you_ on Friday morning."

Henry frowned. "Why would he say Friday morning… hell, who knows why he says anything?"

"_You_ should."

This earned him a brief glare, but then Henry sat back, clearly at a loss again. "So… how _much_ sangria?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?" she snapped. "The point is, I agreed to marry him and within a few hours knew I'd screwed up. I asked him to keep it quiet so… please… if you could… I mean, I know it'll come out eventually but I'd really appreciate it if you…"

"No worries, kid," he said gently. "You already talk to a lawyer?"

"Next appointment on Tuesday. Shawn's not taking it well."

"I imagine." He rubbed his face as before. "Wow. Sorry."

"It's not your fault, and you know it."

Henry gave her a smile. "I don't know. Unlike Shawn, I am willing to own up to my mistakes most of the time, and I am _certainly_ the reason he does a lot of rebellious, dunderheaded, stubborn-ass things."

(Later, Carlton was quite proud of himself for yet again not saying 'duh' when it was so _clearly_ appropriate.)

With a pat to her arm, Henry added, "Under other circumstances, you know, you'd make a great daughter-in-law."

"Thanks," she said with a return smile. "I'm sorry my stupidity caused—"

"Stop saying that," Carlton cut in, annoyed. "You were _not_ stupid. You were mad at me, Spencer was mad at Henry, alcohol and manipulation were added to the mix and you're lucky you _only_ got married. You could also have gotten matching neck tattoos with your names spelled wrong."

Juliet was startled at first and then began to smile; meanwhile, Henry looked at Carlton and said speculatively, "So this means… _we're_ responsible for this."

Carlton sighed and raised his hand. "Booyah, baby," and they high-fived each other.

To his relief, Juliet actually laughed. Henry got up and hugged her, and Carlton thought he'd make a pretty good father-in-law, but it would take a lot more than a great cup of coffee to get him to admit it to the man.

Two cups, maybe, and one of those crullers from the other day.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet put on her seatbelt and adjusted the sun visor.

Carlton put the keys in the ignition but didn't start the car. "Tell me again why you don't want an annulment?"

The question was direct, if more subdued than he might normally have asked, and Juliet once again knew she had to be honest with him above all others. She pocketed her sunglasses and considered how to answer.

Carlton said, "It might not be any cheaper, but it'll most likely be faster. You might get it in half the time."

Juliet frowned at him.

He fidgeted. "I told a contact in a family law firm I was doing background for an investigation. Every case is different but I think since your lawyer was optimistic, there's a good chance it could go your way."

She fidgeted too, still searching for the right words to keep from looking like an idiot.

"Juliet." His voice was low, insistent. Earnest. "I… what Henry said makes it clear that for whatever reason, Spencer told more than one lie about… everything. And I was thinking that the gas station where he stole your card might have security cam footage of him using it at the pump, so there'd be no question of…" He stopped, and when Juliet looked at him, he was shaking his head slightly at himself, as if he were annoyed he'd spoken at all. "Sorry. Backing off."

He started the engine, but Juliet reached over and covered his hand with hers before he could put the car in gear. "Carlton, it's okay."

After a breathless moment, he turned his hand to clasp hers, not looking at her. Hiding those wide blue eyes.

"A divorce is simple. Unless he fights it, we probably wouldn't have to go to court. It's just forms and signatures and it's done. But if I pursue an annulment, I have to stand before someone or at the very least put in writing that I was an idiot—stop," she warned when he turned to protest. "I feel like one. Logic won't work on me over this. I _feel_ like an idiot. I was a total bitch to my best friend, I immaturely ran home to get drunk, I let a man I _know_ has trouble with the truth spin me a story I wanted to believe so badly that it didn't matter how dumb an idea it was. I knew better. I _knew_ better, Carlton. And at the moment I really don't want to have to explain that to a judge or even find a way to put it in writing."

His long fingers were so warm, interlinked with hers. "You're not assigning enough blame to Spencer. He deliberately took advantage of you."

"Yes, he did. I know he did. But that's another thing I'm still not ready to sign my name to. I'm not sure I can do that to him."

His grip tightened and the blue of his eyes got darker. "O'Hara, the man needs to be held accountable for his actions just like the rest of us. You're sitting over there beating _yourself_ up for being victimized, and you still want to protect the guy who did it to you? How is that any different from a wife staying with her abusive husband because she's positive he didn't _mean_ to hurt her?"

Juliet was stung… but the feeling faded. He was right.

He changed tack. "When did you last see him before he showed up at your place on Friday?"

She had to think about it a moment; events prior to The Marriage were fuzzy lately. "The night before. He and Gus and I had a quick dinner out. They were going to go see an Ed Wood movie."

"How was he?"

Juliet noted that they were still holding hands, and he was rubbing his thumb gently across the back of hers. So nice. So soothing. So warm.

So distracting.

Clearing her head, she said, "Fine. I don't remember anything unusual except he and Gus argued about soup."

"What's unusual about that with those two?" he asked dryly.

She smiled. "Just the viciousness of it. It was Campbell's vs. Progresso, if I recall. Shawn kept on about Gus preferring Progresso until I threatened to leave."

"So he was in a bad mood, but not aiming at you."

"Well… I guess. Where are you going with this?"

"Just trying to work out why he first told you Friday, then changed it to Thursday, but it was really on Wednesday. If the fight with Henry was that bad, why wasn't he at your door Wednesday night?"

"Maybe the big epiphany happened later. Friday morning, even. He _was_ agitated when he showed up, remember."

"When he showed up? Or after he realized you'd been drinking?"

Juliet frowned again. "I don't…"

"Not that you opened the door with the bottle in your hand and hiccupped in his face or anything."

She hesitated. "Um. The bottle was in my hand, yes."

Carlton said quite slowly, "You're not going to argue with me if I say Spencer's opportunistic, are you?"

She started to feel chilled.

"You opened the door, he saw you'd been drinking, and he used your condition to his advantage. He lied about the fight, claiming it was only a conversation—because if you thought he was proposing out of anger toward Henry, you'd never have said yes." He was gazing at her intently. "How am I doing, detective?"

Juliet—unwilling to go where he had gone—tried to pull back her hand, but Carlton held on tightly.

"Juliet, listen. Divorce or annulment, it doesn't matter. I'll back you up either way and my offer to help financially is still open. But at some point you need to quit pretending Spencer's not the sole engineer of this disaster. You need to lay the blame at his feet, not yours. You got conned, sweetheart, and I know the daughter of a con artist must hate the thought of having been fooled again, but this _is_ _not_ your fault."

_Damn him. Damn the truth._

_Sweetheart? Yes… yes. I want that._

He softened his grip on her hand, as well as the quality of his voice. "Come to that, it really doesn't matter whether any of this gets committed to paper, as long as it gets committed to your heart and mind."

The words were relentless enough, but what struck her most deeply was the reminder of how much he cared. She did not cry, and she did not pull free of his hand; she took a few shaky breaths and leaned over swiftly to kiss him on the cheek.

Carlton blushed. "Stop that."

"No. You deserve more than a kiss on the cheek for what you've done for me lately."

He turned to meet her gaze, and God almighty, his eyes were the most compelling, dizzying blue she'd ever seen. "I wouldn't do any of it if I didn't want to."

They were very close. Eye to eye.

Breath to breath.

Juliet whispered, "I wouldn't do this if _I_ didn't want to," and closed the distance to kiss him.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

A tiny but very wise voice in Carlton's head said _you really should not be kissing Juliet_.

No other voices were talking at all. He just kissed her back, and in a matter of seconds this was the game-changing real-deal mother of all kisses. This was lips and tongue and tasting and seeking and sudden heat which rose up out of nowhere: from simple emotion moments ago to an almost desperate need to be connected fully to this woman, this beautiful woman, this kind and sweet and smart and funny and completely unavailable woman.

Coffee and cinnamon and the lilac fragrance of her hair: these were the scents he would forever associate with this kiss… these kisses… along with the wonder of tasting her mouth, her tongue, feeling her nip at his lips and move in impossibly close despite the seatbelt.

There was fast breathing and his pounding heart and the tiny wise voice kept saying _excuuuuuse meeeee_ but Carlton could barely hear it anymore.

Juliet pulled away long enough to unhook her seatbelt, and pressed herself back into his arms, anxious for more. Carlton slid his fingers into her silky hair and kissed her hard—harder than a civilized man should kiss a woman first time out, maybe, but she returned the fire and he felt as if she was climbing into him, into his heart and soul and psyche.

She tugged at his tie, loosening it, slipping her fingertips underneath his shirt and touching his chest sensuously, curiously, almost longingly.

The moment he realized he was about to unbutton her blouse, the tiny wise voice said, _yeah, uh, about that? I've been trying to get your attention_, _dumbass_.

Dammit.

He slowed down, returned his hands to her hair, kissed her more gently, and although he had precious little breath to speak, managed to say her name.

Juliet let out a shuddering sigh and rested her forehead against his shoulder.

Together they calmed down, their breathing gradually returning to something like normal, and Juliet touched his face gently, meeting his gaze with one as wondering as his probably was.

_What will you say?_ _What should _I _say?_

He didn't want to make jokes, or go silent, or offer lectures or advice. She surely already knew he cared for her, and he wouldn't deny it if she asked.

He only wanted to look at her, and touch her, and pray for a miracle.

Juliet leaned in one more time to kiss his face. "Please don't ask me to pretend this didn't happen."

"I wouldn't." Though he should.

She stroked his cheek softly. "Please don't tell me it won't happen again."

Carlton swallowed. "You know it shouldn't."

With a faint smile, she said, "I don't know much about common sense anymore. But I do know _shouldn't_ and _won't_ have different meanings. I'm okay with _shouldn't_." Another caress to his face. "For now."

He sighed and could not help but kiss her again—he was only a man and she was completely irresistible—and she kissed him back with as much passion as before.

But then he resolutely put her away from him.

"For now," he said.

Everything else would have to go unsaid... for now.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"I'd like to start off by saying I miss you."

He said the words gently and very sincerely.

Juliet had just turned the light out when the phone rang, and seeing his name on the screen filled her with trepidation. She hadn't spoken to him since the White Tuxedo Debacle.

"I really want to be with you again," he added.

_I don't miss _you_, not yet. Is that sad? And I don't want to be with you again. That _is_ sad._

She said, "But?"

Shawn sighed. "But I have a matter of great importance to discuss. Oh and don't think I didn't notice that you didn't say you miss me too."

"Shawn?"

"Seriously, Jules. You and your 'best friend' told my dad about us?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Maybe because you were beating me over the head about nobody finding out?"

"I wasn't talking about your _father_, Shawn. Besides, I didn't say that until Sunday and it never occurred to me you hadn't already told _him_."

"Oh, _I_ see. So… was it you or your 'best friend' who told him?"

_Ignore it. Ignore the air quotes in his tone. _

"Carlton did, but it was with my permission."

"Your permission," he said with emphasis.

"If he hadn't said it, I would have. The conversation was going that way and there was no reason Henry shouldn't know. What's your issue?"

"My issue is Lassie had no right to even _be_ in that conversation."

"No right? What does that mean?"

"He's your work partner. He shouldn't have been part of any private conversation with my father."

Juliet said as patiently as she could manage, "Apart from the fact that Carlton's known your father even longer than I have, I am as close to Carlton as you are to Gus, and you know that. He cares about me and he's been very good to me this past week. Why are you suddenly so hostile about him?"

"Suddenly?"

"You two have always been at odds—usually because you get in his face—but you've been really harsh about him since… since that day. Why?"

Shawn was quiet a moment. "I don't like that you're letting him be more of a husband to you than I am."

She felt goosebumps as her brain said _don't be ridiculous_ and her heart said _that's because he is_.

Shawn pressed on, "He was the one you called to 'rescue' you. He was the one you let step in to supposedly protect you when I went to the station on Tuesday. He was the one who broke the news to my dad. I wouldn't be surprised if you ran to _him_ on Sunday when you ditched me at your place."

Her heart was pounding, and not in a good way, and she couldn't stop the flow of words. "I couldn't count on _you_ to take me home, I couldn't count on _you_ to leave my apartment or the station simply because I _asked_ you to, and I already told you: if Carlton hadn't said the words to Henry, I would have. It was hard for me to make any sense and Henry was already confused enough. I am not going to tell you again that Carlton is my friend and someone I trust completely, and furthermore, if I acted this way about Gus you'd think I was a jealous nutjob."

His intake of breath was sharp. "I have no reason to be jealous of Lassie."

_Yeah, you do._

"And thanks for thinking that way about me." But in the next breath, he sounded apologetic. "Jules, I don't want to fight with you. I really just want you back in my life. If you don't want to live together as man and wife, okay, I can dig that, but you can't give up on us like this. We have something. I'm not going to say 'had.' We _have_ something."

I_ have mainly regrets._

"What we _have_, Shawn, is… I can't trust you to respect me or be honest with me. Or really with anyone else either. Why didn't you tell me your 'heart-to-heart' with Henry was actually a huge fight?"

There was only a short pause. "It would have upset you."

"Of course it would have upset me. I would have asked you about it and tried to help you work through it."

"There was nothing to work through," he said impatiently. "He was a jerk and I yelled back and it was the same-old, same-old. What difference does it make now?"

"The difference is you led me to believe it was a meaningful _conversation_ because of which you were able to make decisions for your future. For _our_ future."

"Oh, it was meaningful, all right. So yeah, there was yelling—it _did_ help me make decisions, and those decisions helped you make decisions. What's the downside?"

Her head was beginning to ache. "The lie is the downside. The lie is always the damn downside, Shawn! You are not stupid. You are an extremely clever person with stellar deductive reasoning abilities. Why do we always come back to you not seeing the damage your lies can do?"

He was silent, sighing. "Here's what's true, and I told you before. I love you. I'm sorry I made a mess of our wedding day but that's just one day out of a lifetime. The rest can be all good. I want another chance. I want to get past this. I don't want you to rush into a divorce."

"The way we rushed into marriage?"

"Jules. No more fighting. Let's just… try this again."

_I can't_, she thought, _and I don't want to_. She almost said it out loud.

_Tell him it's over._

_Tell him._

"I need more time. Please. There's still so much I have to make sense of."

_Coward._

"Love shouldn't be hard to make sense of. How you feel about me… you already know that."

_Yes, I do… but it's not my former feelings for _you_ I'm preoccupied with._

"I'll call you in a few days," she said. "Goodnight." She disconnected and set the phone down, and rolled over in bed, punching the pillow.

And just like that, her thoughts returned to where they'd been all day long.

Kissing Carlton in the car.

She shivered, remembering the want and feeling it again. He must think she was some kind of desperate two-timing hussy but oh, she would so do it again. The heat of his mouth, the sheer animal drive she'd felt so keenly between them… tempered by his gentleness and obvious feelings for her.

Earlier she looked up transference online; she wanted to find some validation that she wasn't simply pointing her feelings for Shawn at Carlton instead, but the truth was… the truth had always been… what she felt for Shawn was never as intense as the connection she felt with Carlton. She'd never experienced with Shawn the level of trust she had in Carlton.

She had always assumed it was due to the nature of their jobs; the bond between partners was deeper and more complex than other relationships. She also assumed Shawn being different from pretty much everyone else in the universe (who wasn't a teenager) was part of the problem: he was quirky, whimsical, intense, larger-than-life.

He was fun when the job wasn't. He was an escape.

But he was no refuge.

_Carlton_ was a refuge.

What she had concluded from her reading was different than she expected to find. What she thought now was that she had transferred—or rather, deferred—her growing awareness of Carlton during the early years of their partnership (when neither one of them could afford any black marks on their records) to Shawn. Shawn was her distraction from Carlton.

And now, with Shawn very nearly out of the picture, there was… Carlton.

... who was still her partner, even more her friend, intense in his own way, someone she could trust and absolutely rely on and whom she knew felt the same away about her. He also smelled good and was so warm and he kissed like nobody's business, and everything he felt for her was reflected in his incredible blue eyes.

She knew he loved her. She didn't know how long exactly, but she knew it.

She was a coward for not breaking it off with Shawn tonight. But it wasn't because the relationship had any life left in it. It was only because even after everything that happened, she was simply a coward about saying the words "it's over."

However, she would find her courage soon, because after today in the Crown Vic, there was no way she was going to do without Carlton.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Saturday morning, Carlton was about to leave the farmers' market when he saw Gus eyeing monkey bread at a booth near the exit.

Gus looked up and Carlton nodded. He had no intention of approaching him but Gus held up his hand, so he waited for him to come closer. "Guster. The best monkey bread is six booths down."

"I know. I was just there but they said their last loaf went to a tall Irish-looking guy. I think the booth lady is sweet on you." He seemed irritated more than amused.

"Oh. Sorry about that. Well, the bread you were looking at is pretty good, so..." He trailed off.

Gus remained in his path. "How's Juliet doing?"

Carlton shifted his bags around. "You asking as her friend or because Spencer put you up to it?"

"The former. I've known her a long time too, remember."

Fair enough. "She's okay. She's thinking things over." That's all he would say. He trusted Guster more than Spencer, but the man had the willpower of a bit of fluff when it came to resisting Spencer's vacuum-esque information-sucking powers.

He nodded. "Good. Good." Still he remained in Carlton's way.

"Anything else, Guster?"

Gus obviously made a decision. "Tell her I said she's doing the right thing."

Carlton felt his eyebrows rising.

"About Shawn. About a divorce."

"Well, now I _know_ Spencer didn't put you up to anything," he said. "You came to this realization because…?"

With a roll of his large brown eyes, Gus said, "Come on. Shawn's not going to be ready for marriage for _another_ thirty-six years. He may be my best friend, and I know he loves Juliet, but that's not enough for someone like her. She needs a man she can count on all the time, not just in a pinch." He hesitated. "She needs... someone like you."

The heat rising into his face warned him he could be in trouble, and Gus nodded slightly at the sight.

"Yeah," he repeated. "Someone like you."

"Why are you saying this to me?" Carlton asked tightly.

"Because Shawn's been complaining about you being there for her every step of the way and it occurred to me... it's always been you. And he knows it's always been you. In fact, sometimes I think he _let_ you be there for her because it meant he didn't have to man up and do it himself."

Of the several immediate reactions Carlton had to this, the first to voice itself was, not surprisingly, a deflection.

"The only person who let me be anywhere for Juliet is Juliet. We're partners. Partners look out for each other."

"Yeah. But they don't all drive eighty miles on their partners' wedding nights. And I saw you bring her home Sunday evening. Shawn asked me to run by her place to see if she was back from wherever she ran. I was supposed to call him if her lights were on." He looked carefully at Carlton. "But when I saw you drop her off, I couldn't do it."

Carlton still felt the heat in his face. In his heart. "Why not?"

"Because she was smiling as you walked her up the stairs, and when she watched you from her window as you left, she was still smiling. She was smiling like someone who... who found her happy place." He half-smiled himself. "I haven't seen her smile like that with Shawn for a long time, Lassiter."

"All right," he said slowly, deeply uncomfortable and certain Spencer might jump out from behind a farmer any second now.

"Some day, Shawn's going to be okay about this. He'll be okay that you're her man, because he already knows you'll take care of her."

Carlton was officially speechless.

"But just so you know," Gus added in a lower voice, looking around as if he also thought Spencer might jump out. "I was never here, and we never had this conversation, and even if we did, all I was doing was telling you off for buying the last really excellent loaf of monkey bread."

For about two seconds, Carlton considered giving him the loaf he had.

Then he turned on his heel and walked as fast as he could toward freedom.

Or at least to his Fusion. He loaded the bags in the trunk and slid in behind the wheel and promptly shoved both hands through his hair restlessly.

Friday at work they'd been too busy to spend time alone, but the truth was he'd been two-thirds crazy since he and Juliet kissed.

As if 'kissed' was a suitable word for what went on in the Crown Vic that day.

As if _any_ word or string of words or even a book _full_ of words could describe the feelings, the sensations, the no-other-term-for-it-but _hope_ he'd felt then and now.

For the future. A future with Juliet.

He put his hands over his face, sighing.

Dear God, he wanted to trust in that hope, and now in what Gus thought he'd seen. He knew it was foolish: on Friday a week ago she had been prepared to marry Spencer. She had feelings for him strong enough to marry the son of a loon, and surely those surpassed the anger she'd admitted to carrying for Carlton.

But she didn't lie, and she wasn't easily fooled (except by Spencer all those years, but everyone has a Waterloo), and for her to say the things she said meant they were true. About him, about them, and all true.

Nuts.

But true.

So.

Now he waited. Upwards of six months, he would wait. Hell, he'd wait ten times longer, but at the moment there was a goal: to see what she wanted from him, if anything, when she was single again.

Of course she might still reconcile with Spencer.

Yet, sitting there two-thirds crazy in his car, with a lifetime of romantic disappointments under his belt, and despite having watched Spencer woo and win Juliet to begin with… he knew there would be no reconciliation.

It was completely unlike him to be optimistic, so he rationalized it by explaining to himself that it wasn't optimism for his own sake, but rather hers: his trust that her own sense of self-worth would keep her from going back to a relationship with a man who simply could not be honest with her.

His phone rang: Juliet. He raked at his hair to restore some kind of order, as if she could see him, and gave her a brisk hello.

"Hi. Are you… would you like to have brunch with me? Or an early lunch? Or a late-morning snack?"

Honesty was crucial. "I would like to have _anything_ with you."

Juliet laughed. "That's very encouraging. I know I shouldn't even ask but I really would just like to _see_ you."

"The feeling is mutual." Holy crap, if she only fully grasped how much it was mutual.

"The last time you said that, I wondered which feeling it was."

"All the good ones," he assured her. "Do you want to meet somewhere or do you want to come over? I just picked up a loaf of monkey bread."

"Ooh, sold. I'll be there in twenty. Is that okay?"

Was it _okay_? Sheesh.

He started the engine, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of _that_ question.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet had barely knocked on his door when he opened it, and he didn't even try to hide his heart from her. It was in his ocean-blue eyes, and in the husky quality of his hello, and in the tightness of his grasp when she slipped into his arms as soon as the door was closed behind them.

He whispered, "Just once," and kissed her, his warm mouth covering hers with the heat and ardency of a thousand nights in bed, and Juliet hoped to spend at least that many with him in the future.

She gave herself to the kiss, her tongue meeting his, his teeth tugging at her lips, his hands on her ass pulling her to him hard. So much to imagine based on what she felt from his body.

It would be a long few months indeed. She knew without asking that he wouldn't let himself sleep with her, just as she knew she was only a moment away from taking her clothes off.

Never before had "it's just a piece of paper" seemed true to her. Today—and for as much time as it would take to get out from under that paper—it was the most aggravating truth she knew.

"My God," she gasped, as his tongue trailed down her throat. "How in the hell is monkey bread going to top this?"

She was fumbling with his shirt buttons, desperate to touch his warm bare chest, but no sooner had her fingertips found the springy hair she longed to kiss than he drew back and stepped away, out of breath.

"Good Lord," he managed. "So much for self-control."

"Mine or yours?"

Carlton grinned. "I meant mine, but it's flattering to think yours was at risk."

"At risk? _Crumbling_." She made an exaggeratedly wide berth around him, stopping at the table.

"Do we... need to talk about what I think we don't need to talk about?"

Juliet turned; he was standing where she'd left him, black and silver hair tousled (she'd done that), blue eyes still lit with desire, shirt partially open and his chest calling out to be fondled.

Wrestling her mind back to the question, she said, "If you mean about us not sleeping together yet, no. We don't have to discuss that."

"Okay." He nodded, as if this settled everything.

"And when it's time, talk will be the last thing on our minds," she added.

Carlton flushed with a heat she wanted quite badly to touch with the palm of her hands and feel with her lips on his skin.

"Okay," he said again, a bit unsteadily, and went to make coffee to go with the monkey bread.

When Juliet went home later, having been thoroughly kissed one more time at the door (they agreed twice was better than once), she knew this was the path she was meant to walk.

Now she just had to find the backbone to break things off with Shawn once and for all.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_(Note: I'm tired of Sgt. Allen—aka Officer Allen—not having a name so I'm hereby dubbing her Patricia, which is the name of the actress who portrayed her.)  
_**. . . .**

**. . .**

Every day Juliet entered the police station, she was aware They Could Have Found Out. Every day, until she got to her desk, exchanged smiles with Carlton, and started in on her work, she was afraid someone would drop a hint, or worse, run up exclaiming about her good news.

Carlton had found many reasons for them to leave the station lately: witness follow-up, re-checking crime scenes, talking to experts they didn't really need to meet with in person. She was grateful, accepted her cowardice, and absolutely knew this peace wouldn't last.

On Monday morning, she stopped at Booking to check for messages, and Sergeant Allen cleared her throat.

Juliet tensed, and slowly lifted her head to meet the other woman's wide-eyed gaze. "Yes?"

"Detective O'Hara?"

"Yes?"

The sergeant handed her a piece of paper. "This was in my pile of mail this morning, tucked under an ad for a new crystal store."

Taking it with a relatively steady hand, Juliet now held her… undoing.

It was a neat clipping from what had to be the _Santa Clarita Signal_'s marriage license application notices. There, in damning black and white, was her name alongside Shawn's.

"Your pile of mail here at the station?" she clarified, again, relatively steadily.

"Yes, ma'am. First thing."

Juliet met her still-wide eyes. "Your take on it?"

Patricia Allen, for all her New Age quirkiness, was a trained police officer. She spent her days at the Booking desk instead of in a squad car, but that didn't mean she lacked either ability or sense.

"I think someone wanted me to see it."

"That's right. Someone wanted you to see it." Juliet sighed. "You want to know if it's true?"

Patricia started to nod, then turned it into a head-shake, then back to a nod, then just stopped moving completely. She said abruptly, "I was on duty when Shawn came in wearing the tuxedo last week. You didn't look very happy about it and when you walked outside with him you looked even worse. So I think…"

Juliet waited, filled with a weird mix of hope and dread.

"I think it's true," she finished.

_Crap. And yet, points for her logic._

"_Is_ it true?"

It'd be funny if it wasn't so very un-funny.

Stepping up closer to the desk, Juliet spoke in a low voice. "Yes, it's true. And it was over the same day it started. I wanted to keep my mistake quiet as long as I could but Shawn doesn't agree with me. You understand it was Shawn who planted this in your stack of mail?"

Uneasily, Patricia nodded.

"And you won't be shocked if I tell you it's because you're known as a bit of an information broker around here?" _Gossip_ was more like it, but in truth the good sergeant could be awfully useful when a person _sought_ information.

"I could see some people thinking that." Her tone was noticeably cooler.

Juliet braced herself. "Here's the thing. Shawn's got a lot of really good qualities but one of his strongest skills is manipulating people. He _wants_ you to spread this around. He doesn't see how it's going to hurt or embarrass me—that's not his goal at all—but it will. Partly because I'm embarrassed about what I did, and partly because when you _ask_ your boyfriend not to do something which is going to hurt you, the asking should be all he needs."

This earned another nod; Patricia'd had her own romantic Hindenburgs. (Sometimes the Lead Gossip got gossiped _about_.)

"I don't expect you to keep this a secret." She handed the clipping back. "It's a matter of public record and I'm sure people will find out anyway once the divorce proceedings start." Smoothing down her jacket, she added simply, "I just want you to remember that if you do tell, then he will have successfully played you."

Patricia's perpetually wide eyes grew even wider. Juliet gave her a faint smile and turned away.

"Detective O'Hara," she said peremptorily.

Juliet turned.

Raising her hand to show the clipping, Patricia smoothly tore it two and threw it away. "Nobody plays me, and nobody ought ever to play _you_," she said with satisfaction. "Don't you worry. Detective Lassiter's not the only one who can watch your back."

The relief—along with a sudden urge to hug the sergeant—was nearly overwhelming, but both the desk phones started ringing and she settled for a warmer smile and a fast retreat.

The conference room was empty and she slipped inside to get her bearings.

She couldn't believe how unsurprised she was that Shawn had done this. She knew his motives weren't evil. He probably really thought that if the word got out, enough people congratulating her and telling her "Good job! You caught yourself a real gem!" would change her mind, or at least slow her down, about terminating their so-called marriage.

But regardless of his motives, _what a lousy son of a bitch_.

Juliet picked up a pencil and considered stabbing the surface of the table with it, and then the chair, and then the walls, but Buzz McNab came in with an armful of folders for the filing cabinet in the corner and she dropped the pencil guiltily.

"Oh, good morning, Detective."

"Hello, Buzz. How are you?" She could _pretend_ to be calm.

"I'm good. Um, are you okay?" He was all concern. "Can I get you anything?"

"No thanks, I'm fine. I just have a little headache and I thought I'd sit here a minute before I start the day."

"Good," he said, with apparently genuine relief. "I was worried about you last week. Sure glad to see you worked things out with Detective Lassiter."

_Do not scare the deer_, she thought instantly; _stay neutral_. "We always do."

"Well… you had me going." Then he looked embarrassed. "I mean, my mom always said I had good hearing but I swear I didn't mean to even accidentally eavesdrop. I was just getting coffee, see."

He was just getting coffee. _On the other side of the glass from where she and Carlton were yelling at each other_.

"I understand. It's okay. We really did work it out," she assured him.

Buzz was much relieved. "I thought so. I wasn't sure after you, um, slapped him, but Shawn said you'd both be okay."

He turned to the filing cabinet, humming, and Juliet sat for a few seconds with a great chill overtaking her, so great as to almost freeze her to the chair.

With effort, she got to her feet and went to the door, closing it securely.

"Buzz," she said mildly, belying her pounding, raging heart, "would you have a seat? There's something I need to ask you."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton saw Juliet come out of the conference room, unnaturally cool and collected, and Buzz left shortly after, looking quite the opposite.

Rising and crossing to her desk, he was struck by her body language: something was very wrong, and he recognized it from years gone by. She was pissed off, with a capital Royal.

"O'Hara."

She looked up, dark blue eyes glacial, but they warmed immediately. "Carlton."

He was about to ask lightly if she'd had a good weekend—they'd met for an early in-public, no-touching dinner Sunday afternoon—but thought better of it, because there was no time for idle chit-chat if his Juliet was upset about anything. "What's wrong?"

Juliet drew in a deep breath. "Let me organize it in my head awhile."

"Do I need to have Buzz fired?"

She laughed shortly. "No. Canonized, maybe. But not fired. I'll tell you after a while. I need to get over the urge to commit murder."

"Oookay." He'd learned one thing from his marriage which regularly served him well: when a woman said "not now," she meant "not now, _dammit_," and he had enough survival sense to back off and let her alone.

No way had Buzz McNab caused this ire, though. Had to be Spencer.

Over dinner she'd told him her plan was to break it off with Spencer as soon as she finished up with her lawyer on Tuesday. She'd have a plan, she'd take it to him, she'd say "goodbye," and that would be that unless he was an asshat about everything.

_Which… _

Yes, it was a distinct possibility.

So Carlton bided his time, 80% of his attention on his work and the other 20% focused on Juliet, who grew progressively more irritated as the morning went on.

_Definitely_ Spencer.

They had an appointment in the district attorney's office regarding their extortioner, and Juliet didn't say much in the car, instead staring out the windows, her fingers curling around the seatbelt as if she'd like to use it as a weapon.

Whatever Spencer had done was very, very bad. Possibly a shootable offense, he reckoned, except the way Juliet looked, she'd want to do the honors herself.

"You sure you don't want to tell me about it?"

"Soon. I promise."

She kept her promises, so he told himself to relax.

With the D.A.'s people she was uncharacteristically testy, but wasn't quite rude enough to warrant a smackdown. Carlton was becoming concerned for public safety reasons, however: Juliet was, as they say, gonna blow.

She punched at the elevator door when it closed too quickly on their way out, and he had to grab her arm to stop her from going after a woman who jostled her on the sidewalk.

"Easy, O'Hara. Remember you're a sunny person at heart."

"Yeah? Well, you remember _this_, Carlton: the sun can also burn a person's skin off."

He let go of her arm and she instantly turned to apologize, but he waved it away. "It's okay. I know this vitriol isn't directed at me." Kinda nice, actually, that it wasn't.

"It's not. I promise." Juliet let out a breath, the color in her cheeks gradually subsiding. "And you're right; enough's enough. Take me to Psych. This will _not_ take long." Opening her car door, she stopped to add, "But if I call you to come inside, bring your gloves and some plastic sheeting."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Shawn's Norton was parked nearby, so she didn't bother knocking before she walked into the playroom aka office.

Shawn himself was parked in front of the TV, watching _Dr. Phil_, and his smile when he saw her was immediate and broad. "Jules! Honey, hey, I'm so glad you're here." He got up and moved closer as if to hug her, but she put a hand out to keep him at bay. "Um… okay, I'm sensing you're upset."

"I'll bet you _are_ sensing that." She crossed her arms, reminding herself to take it slow. "To start off with, I'd like to sincerely thank you for the 'anonymous' clipping you left for Patricia this morning."

There was a brief pause before Shawn frowned. "Who's Patricia?"

_Seven years. Seven years and he doesn't know her name? Or is this just another act?_

"See, if I were in your shoes, _my_ first question would have been, '_what_ clipping'?" She gave him her iciest smile.

He held up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, Jules, I don't know what you're talking about, but—"

"Save it. The clipping isn't why I'm here."

Shawn eyed her warily. "Okay."

_One… two… go._

"I've thought about our wedding day a lot this past week. I thought about the lies, including the lies of omission; I've thought about the theft of my credit card and your total disrespect of my feelings at my apartment complex and in my workplace. I've tried to figure out why you've done the things you've done, and why I reacted the way I did. At various moments I've been worried, angry, frustrated or completely mystified—occasionally all at the same time. But I never, ever, stopped to ask myself one simple question."

He retreated to sit at his desk, but his hazel eyes never left hers.

"I never asked myself how you knew I was home that day."

Those hazel eyes closed momentarily, but Shawn never stayed down for long. "Well, that's easy. I—"

"No. Don't even try. There were no phone calls. There were no texts. You had no reason to think I was at home."

"I happened to drive by your place and saw your car and I—"

"Stop. You knew I was home because you went by the station to see if I'd go to lunch with you. Buzz said you were very excited about trying out the new chalupa and chimichanga place."

"Cha-chimi Jimmy's," he said softly. "Great name."

"But Buzz," she went on implacably, "who'd just witnessed a huge nasty fight between me and Carlton, told you I ran out a few minutes earlier. He was upset about what he'd seen and you convinced him to tell you _all_ about it even though his first instinct was to protect our privacy. He told you he heard enough of our argument to know it was about you. He saw me lose control and slap Carlton, and he asked your advice as to what, if anything, he should do."

Silence from the man at the desk.

"You told him to keep it to himself, you assured him cheerfully it would all blow over, and you bopped on out of the station again."

"I don't… really… bop," he offered. "Well, maybe a little. But Jules, I swear—"

"Now here's the second part of the story. The part where, since Buzz said it was only about ten minutes after I left that you showed up, I have to wonder why I'd been home nearly an hour with my sangria before you knocked on my door. But I figured that out too, Shawn. I figured the missing time allowed you to look up the addresses and directions for the County Clerk's office and courthouse in Santa Clarita, and even the Clarita Valley Resort so you could just _happen_ to invade Gus' weekend with Kelli. I mean, we could have gotten married _anywhere_. You chose Santa Clarita specifically so you could be with your best boy."

"Jules, wait."

"No. Not waiting anymore. You already knew I thought marriage was _way_ the hell in our future. We agreed. You weren't interested either, until the minute your father told you I would _never_ marry you—and then you just had to prove him wrong. I think you were already cooking up a way to make it happen. I don't think it was going to be that day originally. But then—" She paused for a dramatic gasp. "Then you heard about the argument. You knew it was about you and that I'd be pissed enough at Carlton to be in the mood to show him up—and _there_ you were right, Shawn, there you were dead-on right. So boom! Improv Plan #77 goes into action. Look up addresses, work out a speech, decide to lie about the timing and nature of your fight with Henry, and show up at my door ready to pitch me a compelling set of reasons that we should marry."

He set his chin in his hands, staring at the blotter and his collection of fast food toys.

"I open the door, nearly empty bottle in hand and obviously more than tipsy, and your job just got a hell of a lot easier. You convince me to get in the car, and when we're eighty miles up the road, you lay your trap. You isolated me from the herd, and it was _so_ time to move in."

"You make me sound evil," he said regretfully.

"That's the irony! You're not evil at all! You're just selfish and manipulative and narcissistic. None of this was about your feelings for me. This was about pride. You probably told yourself you'd been planning to marry me anyway, so why not do it now? Big deal, right?"

"Kinda," he admitted. "You _are_ the one I want."

"Well, I'm also the one you've killed every last chance with."

He looked up sadly. "Every chance?"

"Every. Single. Chance."

Shawn's expression of pain was probably sincere. "Why didn't you tell me about the fight? Doesn't that constitute you keeping a secret from me?"

Juliet stared at him. "As soon as you got there, you immediately started begging me to come for a drive with you because you needed to talk. And see, even though I was extremely upset about my argument with Carlton, I cared enough about you to try to listen. By the way, did you ever even ask me why I was home? Why I was drinking on a workday afternoon? Initially I put it down to you being distracted and typically uninterested in what was going on with me, but now I get it. You already knew, and it was essential for you to quickly reap the rewards of my emotional distress for your own end game."

_You selfish bastard._

"Honey…"

Juliet shook her head. "Tomorrow afternoon I'm seeing the lawyer again. If you have any damn sense at all, you'll just sign whatever papers come your way."

He stood up, anxiety in his body language, and started toward her.

Once more she held up her hand to forestall him. "Stop. Just stop. We're through, Shawn. Maybe, _maybe_ someday we can be friends again, but I'm not making any promises I don't know I can keep." With a curt nod, she headed for the door.

"Jules. One question, please."

She turned grudgingly and faced the man she understood now she barely knew.

"Do you believe I love you? Do you at least know _that's_ true?"

"Yes, Shawn. I believe you love me." Then she walked out.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton had gotten out of the Crown Vic and was leaning against the rail overlooking the ocean. The salt breeze was warm and he was trying to be patient, but patience wasn't his strong suit so he was becoming more agitated with each passing moment.

He heard a wolf whistle behind him and turned; Juliet was approaching across the gravel lot and gestured for him to follow her when she veered away from Psych and further down the beachside path.

There was an empty bench out of sight of the office—he hoped—and when he sat beside her she immediately took his hand and held it in her lap.

"Hi," he said.

She smiled, but he could see her tension. "Hi. I did it."

"The breakup or the murder?"

"The breakup. I have to admit I worked up a pretty good daydream at the station about shoving a stapler in his ear, but I swear, officer, I never laid a hand on him."

Carlton gauged her answer to be truthful; no surprise there. "You going to tell me what the final straw was?"

"Yes. That's why I'm holding on to your hand so tightly. I'd ask for your service weapon but that might be a bit extreme."

_Hmmmmmm._

He listened as calmly as he could—which wasn't very calmly—to what she had to say, starting with the colossally insensitive move Spencer made via the 'anonymous' clipping left for Sergeant Allen and moving on to what she'd learned from Buzz this morning.

Once again he felt tremendous regret about their fight but on another level he understood that without it, Juliet might not be holding his hand right now. It was a convoluted and painful way to get to a Very Good Thing, but here they were.

She was peering up at him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"I will be. I could still do some serious damage to a stapler, but I'm already feeling better." She squeezed his hand. "Tomorrow when I go see my lawyer, I'm going to tell her everything and then I'm going to ask her to give me her best advice about how to proceed. If she thinks an annulment is worth pursuing, that's what I'll do. I can handle it now. What you said is true—despite my foolish behavior that day, no amount of stupidity on my part could have landed me in this situation without Shawn lying and manipulating me every step of the way."

"That's what I wanted to hear," he said gently, and longed to kiss her.

Juliet smiled. "For the first time, I'm a little glad I slapped you."

Carlton had to smile back. "Me, too. But…"

"What is it?"

"Are you sure? About me? About us?"

Simple question. Juliet's expressive eyes studied his. "Yes."

"A week ago you were crying over Spencer."

"A week ago," she countered, "I was crying because I was angry and embarrassed and full of regrets. It wasn't a broken heart. Honestly, I'm not entirely sure whether I ever fully gave my heart to him at all."

"Are you sure?" he repeated.

He knew she understood the real question. He was afraid she might not want him when it was all over.

"Yes." She stroked his hand. "If I had any doubts about you whatsoever, I could never have made that phone call on my wedding night. You're my castle guard, remember?"

Carlton drew her fingers up to his lips for a kiss, and loved the smile which lit her lovely face.

"Until my dying day, princess."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**E.P.I.L.O.G.U.E**

**. . . . **

**. . .**

Camille Hughes, after hearing Juliet's full story, thought annulment was the appropriate course of action. The sangria, the many layers of deception including the credit card theft prior to the actual wedding—it all painted a very clear picture of a woman tricked into marriage.

It wouldn't be easy, she warned. Annulments worked best when everything was cut and dried and from what she now knew about Shawn, 'cut and dried' simply didn't apply to him.

Juliet steeled herself, and did every difficult thing Camille advised her to do, and in four months, without any opposition from Shawn, her marriage had never existed, and she had the papers to prove it.

They were delivered to her on a Thursday morning at the station while Carlton was out, and she looked at them with two sets of emotions: one, regret for all that had passed with Shawn, and two, hope for her future now with Carlton.

They'd had their own rough four months. Beautiful, wonderful months, but very, very rough, because their want for each other had grown daily. He would not budge or allow her to budge: they could not sleep together until she was truly single. He wanted no taint on how their relationship began, and she knew he also needed her to take the time to be absolutely frickin' dead sure she wanted to be with _him_.

So they kissed, and touched, and drove each other mad, but they remained celibate. The kisses were just maddening teasers for what was to come, and each caress of his long warm fingers against what he would permit himself to touch of her skin was both delicious and utterly tormenting.

They came close, far too many times, to ripping each others' clothes off and simply having at each other, but always, one of them would douse the flame somehow (or rather, dim it; it never went completely out).

Many cold showers, he assured her. Many. She could relate.

It had also been necessary to be discreet. The news did get out about her marriage to Shawn, not by way of Sergeant Allen but rather one of the women in the business office whose mother lived in Santa Clarita and asked her about seeing that "colorful psychic guy's" name in the marriage notices.

Juliet had borne up under the talk and speculation as best she could—Carlton's steely blue glare had been a great help—but it was gratifying to note that some of the people speculating had already noticed Shawn hadn't been around since the tuxedo incident, and drew their own conclusions. After awhile, she sensed the other officers becoming a wall of support around her.

Nothing like the wall of support she got from her blue-eyed Irishman, but pretty nice.

Psych took a break from the police department, and when Chief Vick had to call them in, they worked with other detectives, and mostly off-site.

She spoke to Gus and Henry now and then. They understood, and told her he was going to be okay eventually, and she knew it was true. Shawn would always be okay.

Carlton strode into the bullpen, flashing her a smile as he went to his desk—just another day of pretending they weren't idiotically in love—and she called his desk phone as soon as he was seated.

"Lassiter," he said briskly, eyeing her across the hall.

"The castle," she said with deliberate slowness, "is safe at last."

She watched him figure this out. She watched as he sat up in the chair, wide blue gaze intent, and listened closely as he asked very softly, "It's done?"

"It's done." She held up the envelope. "The _princess_ would like very much to be 'done' now too."

Carlton's eyebrows rose rapidly and he hung up the phone. He walked fast down to Vick's office, spoke to her, and moments later came out again, making a beeline for Juliet's desk. "We have been granted the rest of the week off. She said she didn't want to know anything about it."

Juliet smartly logged out of her laptop, snapped the lid closed, and grabbed her keys while Carlton waited impatiently.

She slid into his Fusion, not even remotely caring if anyone speculated about her Bug remaining in the police lot for a few days, and they made it six blocks before he stopped at a red light and pulled her to him for a hot and meaningful kiss. "I love you, Juliet," he sighed against her lips.

"I love you back, Carlton. Is it too soon to ask you to marry me? I promise to do it right this time."

He laughed and kissed her again, and then again until someone honked a horn behind them.

"No," he said emphatically, driving on. "It's not too soon. Besides, if the castle's safe, I'm out of a job."

"Oh, I don't think so. The princess needs a personal attendant."

"Personal?"

"Extremely personal," she assured him. "Now hurry the hell up."

Carlton put the siren on.

Juliet thought this was entirely appropriate, and spent the rest of the trip thinking up entirely _inappropriate_ things to do to her man when they got home.

**. . . . . .**

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**E.N.D**


End file.
